


Dark Scales

by dragonjawbones



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Injury, Like the slowest burn you can possibly imagine, M/M, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth Spoilers, i know what i'm about, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2020-08-14 00:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 71,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonjawbones/pseuds/dragonjawbones
Summary: Wrathion's return to Azeroth isn't met with the enthusiasm he had hoped for, especially from those he had wronged-- Especially from Anduin Wrynn. The dragon thinks he can continue his research without allies, but he is gravely mistaken.This story uses events/lore from BFA, including quests and entries that were leaked from the upcoming 8.2.5 content. If you're not looking for spoilers, you might want to hold off reading this one for a while! [Updated when able!]





	1. Prologue

Anduin couldn’t count on more than one hand all the times he was permitted to leave Stormwind Keep on his own. Not when he was known as Prince Anduin, and very rarely now as King Anduin. Despite the tragedies that had led up to his father’s crown being placed upon him, Anduin always had the smallest glimmer of hope that his freedom would come with it.

But that was not the case. The past seven months had made that clearer than ever, as Anduin finds himself where he always was: pouring over his writing desk, in his study, two guards outside the door with their shadow spilling under its crack. Deeds and reports lie in front of him for reading; reports of battles he should be present for, or even at the very least, on the same continent of. He couldn’t visit the wounded soldiers that returned to Stormwind on most days, despite his powerful gift of the Light he could use to aid their recovery. Anduin’s advisors would insist he had far too many kingly duties to attend to. People like Greymane would fear the dying carried Plague on them.

He couldn’t help but loathe the memory of their assault on Lordaeron. So paranoid had the leaders of the Alliance become since seeing Sylvanas’s capabilities for themselves; but worst of all, those capabilities had shown how terrifyingly ruthless she could be. Toward his soldiers, toward her own Horde…

It was a victory for the Alliance, but at a great cost to both sides.

It also cost him his allies’ peace of mind. The leaders and his commanders-- most of all Greymane-- would not be content to see Anduin on the battlefield again, now that they’ve seen the true quantities of Sylvanas’s plague that she had at her disposal.

He bounces his leg as he reads another report, impatience starting to bleed into how quickly his eyes pass each line. _Casualties in Stormsong_. _Evidence of Forsaken involvement_. _Poison_. _No capture_.

The paper is set aside. Two more take its place. _Vulpera and Sethrak civil war escalating_. _Not open to Alliance negotiation_. _Champion missing_.

Anduin’s leg continues to bounce. He reads another.

_Loa god awakened. Horde numbers increasing_.

_Success in Drustvar. Low casualties_.

_Request for naval repairs_. The bouncing grows in speed, impatience mounting with its rhythm. _Blacksmiths requested. Gnomish air forces suffer loss in Nazmir. Proudmoore fleet requests more sailors. Loa gods. Old Gods_. _Rogue elementalists. Funding dispute. Champion deceased. Kaldor’ei refugee unrest_\--

Something suddenly clatters to the floor. Anduin yelps as his hand catches the edge of the desk before his body can meet the cold stone. His heart pounds from the quick spook, though he quickly understands his predicament. He rightens himself on his chair and sighs.

His leg had come dislocated from the knee-down with all his anxious bouncing-- the metal knee, that is. The rest of the fake appendage lies on the floor with his boot, leaving the leg of his right trouser empty and hanging flat off the edge of his seat. Anduin leans down to retrieve it.

It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened; not since he’s been back in Stormwind. The Pandaren had made him an excellent leg out of their giant, timeless bamboo trees when he had first lost his leg to Garrosh Hellscream and the Divine Bell. Anduin had marched all over Pandaria with that leg after he recovered, and it hardly buckled once. Then he got older, and taller, and the gnomes have made almost ten different prosthetics for him since his return. He felt guilty about asking for repairs or a new one every time one couldn’t handle the stress he put on it. The materials and tinkering it was replaced with were never the most pristine, but his engineers needed to focus their best effort on the war effort, not him. That’s what he would tell himself.

But it was still inconvenient. He was not marching anywhere now, though, he reminds himself. He was stuck in his own keep, a prisoner of war, of a war he was not even allowed to fight in. The leg was dropped harshly on the desk in front of him.

He looks back down at the reports. He tries to concentrate again, tries to read slower and ignore the asymmetric weight he’s balanced on in his chair. Sentences start to overlap. His fingers _taptaptaptap_ on the wood. The fake leg on the desk rattles with them. The names of places he’s never been stop making sense as they pass over his eyes.

He loathes it. The drumming stops, and Anduin suddenly pushes paper and leg alike away from him with a grand sweep of his arm.

His fingers loop and yank out the tight ponytail from his hair. The heavy, decorated blue coat he wore is torn away and carelessly left discarded on the floor. He undoes the cuffs of his shirt, hastily rolling the sleeves to his elbows. There are no quick or panting breaths, but Anduin’s nostrils flare as he dismantles the perfect, _tidy_, presentable persona of himself in the jerky motions of his hands. Papers, scrolls, and books are cast aside in his haste to bring disorder to the prison of a workspace he knows by heart. It’s a frenzy he’s wont but to give in to. He knows naught the faces of the starving refugees. He hasn’t held his father’s sword on the battlefield in over a year. The humans have no king, no friendly face allowed to greet them in their homes, no majesty to turn to, no withering soul he can comfort with all the gentleness his Light _yearns_ to reach out with--

Finally: Anduin leans far in his chair, balancing precariously on its back legs as his one, real foot lifts and drops its heel on his desk. His head tips far back enough for his now-loose hair to spill over his shoulders.

His blue eyes close slowly, and a sigh escapes his lips.

Sometimes, Anduin Wrynn was allowed his freedom. But only if he had his guards, if he was a good little king who never left his castle, and always did as he was told.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anduin's spymaster informs him of the unrest within the Horde.

The wind was howling fiercely against the stone walls of Stormwind and its homes. It would not be a good day for sailing, Anduin thinks, as he goes about his brief rounds with the dockmaster leading him. Despite the unfavorable conditions for some of the masses, Anduin can only bask in the opportunity to be out of the keep in whatever way he can.

Sailors salute him as they pass, and Anduin smiles politely back at them. The dockmaster, a burly man who was once a captain in the time of the Northrend campaign, continues to point out to the king his pride and joy of a naval bay. Canvas flaps loudly in the wind, almost drowning out his powerful voice, but not quite. One of the ships in the harbor had survived the infamous siege on Zuldazar, the man tells him. Newly-arrived ammunition sat in crates that the dock workers were loading onto another ship set to Kul Tiras at dawn tomorrow, and some champions could be seen observing the few sparkles of valuable artifacts that had come along with it.

“A place for everything, and everything in its place,” the dockmaster proudly proclaims. “We’ve made a few extra coin working a trade agreement with another one of the isles surrounding Stormsong. Should this war last any longer, we might have enough to hire new hands for building a second siege boat.”

The king tries not to let his displeasure for more military effort show on his face. He smiles and gives a small nod instead. “I trust your judgment. The more work we can safely offer on our own shores, the better, don’t you think?”

It was a familiar phrase he liked to test those working under him with, and Anduin receives a noncommittal grunt in response. It was a response he was familiar with from those who wouldn’t dare say otherwise; he wasn’t the only one trying to keep his opinions of war versus peace to himself, he notes.

Suddenly, an explosion has Anduin’s pauldrons shooting up to his ears and his companion holding onto his hat. They both look immediately over their shoulders for its source, finding a young dwarven man with a singed beard barely past his collarbone grinning sheepishly back at them.

His face was over a barrel and covered in soot. “Good morning, y’er majesty,” he says. “Sorry, y’er majesty.”

Anduin can’t help but bite the corner of his lip to suppress a grin. The dockmaster immediately marches over to berate the lad, as two more young sailors help the dwarf hurriedly lug the ruined barrel away.

The captain apologizes profusely when he returns, but King Anduin waves him off in reassurance as they continue the rest of their way down long, endless docks of Stormwind’s harbor.

* * *

He was still patting down his windswept bangs when the doors to the throne room open that later morning. Citizens of numerous races start to pour in at an orderly fashion-- And Anduin could confidently say “numerous” in its diversity now, as the kingdom had become the star refuge of every people under the Alliance banner to those stricken with tragedy in less than a decade’s time.

Little did he know that that would be exactly why the first person in line, a broad kal’dorei priestess, would be here before him. She bows deeply, as do the two night elf advisors in ceremonial robes flanking her.

“Your Majesty,” she says. “The people of Darnassus have come to feel overcrowded in your city; dare I say... even suffocated. We thank you for your hospitality, but we have come to an agreement to find sanctuary elsewhere.”

A pang of guilt finds Anduin. He leans forward toward her. “I am truly sorry, Lady Cerlune. Even now, the kingdom is still picking up the efforts of re-homing the victims of the Cataclysm that my father could not finish in his passing; to be blindsided by the tragedy of the night elves-- I deeply apologize that we could not accommodate you better.”

A tense smile finds Cerlune’s face. She is not the first person to hear of the woes the human nation’s homeless epidemic has exasperated Stormwind’s funds. Anduin guesses she will not be the last today, either. He inwardly winces at how undeserving he is of her gentle words. “Thank you, your Majesty. Your generosity to our people has not gone unnoticed. We only regret that we may not be able to bring many of the Gilnean population with us, as we had watched over them in very much the same way.”

“Where will you go?” Anduin asks.

She glances back at her advisors, the three of them coming to an unspoken agreement. They all turn back to the king. “For now, Val’Sharah. The druids tell of the Nightmare having almost completely vanished. We could help heal the land further. We would… have some semblance of what we lost. The High Priestess has already made preparations with the temples in the south while she continues to oversee Darkshore’s progress.”

Anduin nods slowly. He leans back against the grand throne behind him, visibly mulling the developments over. “And I cannot convince you to stay? You have no demands at all?”

She shakes her head. “I am sorry, your Majesty. This is something we must do, so that we may move forward.”

The king nods again. “Thank you,” he says at last, softly so, “for bringing this news to me. I cannot speak over Lady Tyrande’s decision, and I do not wish to bring her people any more grief. Should hardship find you-- the gates of Stormwind are always open. Always, Lady Cerlune.”

This time, the woman’s smile is easier. She bows to him once more, and the two behind her follow suit. They leave the hall to make way for the next audience at the foot of Anduin’s throne.

It was going to be a long day, Anduin knows, as sadness makes itself an early guest in his heart. Only when the next citizen starts to speak of flooded crop lands does he bury it away to listen. He still had people to help right the wrongs for, all the way until the bells of the keep’s tower ring for midday many hours later.

The line of the king’s audience had since dwindled to a trickle, leaving Anduin with only the stray champion collecting a coin purse or a bounty from one of his many royal officials. They would take their leave outside the throne room on shining steeds or, in the case of one champion, a giant rat. Anduin did not care for that one. He would have to request someone sanitize the steps thoroughly.

“I am going for some air,” Anduin announces. His advisors take that as their cue for their own break.

Several guards step forward to follow him, but the king waves them off. “I am only going to the library. I will not need an escort, but thank you.” He takes his leave once they salute him and resume their posts.

Not that Anduin would truly have a moment of solitude on his way there; guards were stationed at practically every inch of the keep, whether it be outside a door or making their rounds through the corridors. Every one gave their king a salute, or a bow, that Anduin would nod politely with the same recycled smile that barely masked his patience before skirting past them.

He longs to be rid of the armor that weighed heavily on his thin frame. It wouldn’t be until dinner that he would be able to, however. This respite was but to be a brief one before he was to return to an even _longer_ line of troubled townsfolk than this morning. He would hear every one. Such was his duty. Such was his love for his people, as often as he found himself wishing for a farther reach of protection for them.

Two guards salute him when he makes it to the library at last. He slips through the door and lets it fall heavily back into place. He does not lock it though, for of course that would be suspicious of him.

Also, because he needn’t to. A few quick, noisy strides of the steel greaves around his feet lead Anduin to another set of doors made of glass. He pushes them away, and breathes deep before he must release his breath in a sigh.

The ocean winds had grown stronger than they were at dawn. Its chilliness cools Anduin’s face almost immediately to the point of burning, and he is glad for how it grounds him. His bangs whip around his face no matter how many times he attempts to push them behind his ears.

From the balcony, Anduin can see his entire beloved city below him. Its gardens stand out in a lush green among the gray stone and colored rooftops. He can see people milling about in markets, going through their ordinary days despite the dreaded cold of autumn’s approach. This city was his home. It stood unrelenting against so much, even the events Anduin had only witnessed in his own short lifetime. He would do anything for it.

It is precisely why he is unstartled by his guest. “Aren’t you cold?” Anduin asks, not turning away from the view in front of him.

“Maybe if I could remember what winters in Quel’Thalas were like to compare it to. But no, sweetie, I am fine.”

Anduin smiles. He takes in the sight of his city one last time before he turns his head, and sees the familiar face of Valeera Sanguinar smiling back at him. “You’re the only person I know who doesn’t address me by my title, and yet I somehow find ‘sweetie’ much more irritating.”

Valeera just shrugs her shoulders. He knows she won’t change a thing, and he values their friendship for such informality. “I’ve been away for a while. Judging by the lack of gossip I’ve heard, I’m going to guess nothing much has happened since I was gone.”

"Thankfully no,” Anduin says. “We’re continuing to lend our aid to Kul Tiras, but nothing has been amiss on our own shores.”

“You’re probably bored.”

“I’m trying not to be.”

The elf chuckles. She joins him along the stone banister, mimicking Anduin’s laced fingers atop of it as they observe the city together. For a while, they merely stand there enjoying each other’s company.

“I have that information for you,” Valeera says after a while. “You won’t like it.”

The heavy armor around him does well to hide the sag in Anduin’s posture. He is hardly ever happy when he’s given reports. “I would still like to see it.”

A rustle through a satchel, and then the sound of papers being taken out. The two of them turn their back to the city, lest the small journal passed between them be lost to the ocean winds. Anduin thumbs through the pages, then opens them to the passage Valeera had marked.

She waits for him to read every word, watching his features focus and shift. There is intrigue on his face. Then tension. Some parts of Valeera’s writing clearly confuse him, so he reads it twice.

“Sylvanas’s reign is progressing much worse than we feared,” Valeera says when the king meets her gaze with wide eyes. “You know of what happened when you ordered the Alliance to rescue Baine. But that undead tidesage, Zelling-- Derek Proudemoore’s rescue would not be possible without him. His family remains in Drustvar, but I have taken it upon myself to station rogues to watch over them, in case the Warchief wishes for their deaths as well.”

Anduin nods, letting out a shaky breath. “I-- I appreciate that decision. Thank you.”

He runs a hand through the hair still blowing about his face. Thomas Zelling and his death wasn’t the only thing of interest in Valeera’s report: Discontentment was loud and clear among the Horde leaders. Sylvanas’s response was to squeeze them as best she could; but this was not the same reign as Garrosh had. She could not put Orgrimmar under lockdown, for the Horde leaders were putting their heads together in Zandalar. She would not sail there, but her champion Nathanos would. He made no effort to hide the fact he was the ring leader in many sabotage missions against Jaina’s forces.

_Aunt Jaina_. Anduin misses her, and was relieved by the reunion of her albeit dead brother. _Undead_ brother, he quickly reminds himself. Another pin in the cruelty the Warchief was capable of.

“Thank you,” Anduin says again as he collects himself. He hands the journal back to her. “I… I have much to think about what has been kept from me.”

Valeera smiles. “That’s what I’m here for. That will be five thousand gold, please.”

Despite the horrors he had just read, Anduin breathes a laugh. The rogue grins at him, ruffling his tangled hair. Just like she did when he was a child.

“If you don’t need anything else, I think I’m going to find a nice, _biiiig_ bed to cozy into.” Valeera yawns dramatically, stretching her arms over her head. “Light knows when you’re sending me off on another boat ride with the _worst_ hiding places to sleep in.”

“I’m sorry,” Anduin says, but there’s soft amusement in his sympathy. “You know I appreciate you doing this. I would not trust anybody else.”

A single green eye peeks at him. Valeera smiles. “I know. It is my honor to do this for you, Anduin… for your father.”

Slowly, Anduin nods. When his wave of melancholy has passed, he nods again up at her. “The third guestroom in the west hall is free. Loot the kitchen anytime you please.”

Valeera brightens. She gives him a hug, a mock-salute, then disappears over the edge of the banister. Anduin knows his eyes do not have to follow the descent to assure she lands safely in someone’s window without being seen. He knows she will.

The smile doesn’t return to his face as he ponders on what he had just learned. This war was turning into the entire world against one Queen, who would stop at nothing to see her conquests met.

He turns back around to face his city one last time before he has to return to his duties. One corner always catches his eye and softens his heart: the sight of his father’s memorial in the Park-- the greenest part of Stormwind there is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this is chapter one, not two, but prologues in a digital reading format make things finicky like that. Thanks for reading!
> 
> (Chapter edited 08/02/2020)


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange creatures are appearing in the city at night.
> 
> (Edited 08/02/2020)

Valeera would leave for Kalimdor three days later to monitor the tension around Orgrimmar. Despite being sin’dorei herself, her face was far too recognizable to pose as a Horde citizen under Sylvanas’s watchful eye. It would be tricky surveillance work, and Anduin suspects she would gone for another few weeks, if not longer.

He couldn’t be more thankful for her presence since his father’s death. It wasn’t until the discovery of Derek Proudmoore’s body that Anduin had asked Valeera to be his royal spymaster-- his _personal_ spymaster, which she had humbly accepted. No one else knew of this arrangement. It had grown difficult for him to trust his own SI:7 these last few years, and for good reason.

Anduin puts aside the book he had been reading to briefly rest his eyes. Rain was beating heavily against the windows of his bedroom chamber, the water unseen by the blackness of the evening. Storms like this always made his leg ache, but it also blessed him by giving him a rare day of little to do. He had retired to his chambers early, had a meal by himself, and was free to spend the rest of the now-hidden sun lying around without heavy armor nor a creaking leg to walk on. It was nice change of pace he knows he’ll be pained to abandon tomorrow.

He slowly rises from his bed to reach for his cane, standing with a small crack in his back for the trouble. He hobbles his way to every candle in the room, snuffing them out one by one between his fingers and leaving the hearth burning. It provided just enough light to make it back to his bed where he pauses, quiet contemplation following him just on the edge of its wooden posts.

Darkness of the night still lingers on the other side of the glass, until a flash of lightning flashes and lights up the entire harbor. Anduin’s injured leg gives an abrupt twinge of pain that leaves him breathless.

He quickly sits to put his hand on it, running over the limb with a hard furrow to his brow as the ache fights him. He summons the Light and prays between hissed breaths.

This weather always reminded him of when his ship wrecked off the shores of Pandaria. Though he had not lost his leg that day, the memory of the splitting wood and flooded chambers would not loosen its grip on him. It takes a hard squeeze of his eyelids to will away the vivid images of what came after his capture.

Then, he breathes out slowly. His knuckles are white around his injury, until the ache numbs to an annoyance, and he is able to climb under the covers and force himself to sleep before it returns.

A heavy fog surrounds Stormwind the next morning with its icy touch. It would be another day where hardly anything gets done on the sea, and fewer citizens would come to Anduin’s throne room seeking an audience. Although it guilted him to say so, he was glad for another small break. He was even more glad not to wear his armor, and instead bundle himself in his favorite coat of blue and gold. It was warmer, and his prosthetic gave him less of a fuss without all the extra weight of steel.

Problems were few and less severe when the people of Stormwind came to his throne that morning, but one human woman’s concerns gave Anduin a morbid sense of intrigue: “My children swear they are seeing giant birds fly over Stormwind. Not just gryphons or fat crows, your majesty. They insist they are ugly things, like vultures.”

Anduin frowns at this. “Are your children sure they are birds? Sometimes our visitors come on strange animals, even sometimes dragons.”

The woman shakes her head. “They insist on them being feathered creatures. I know that are just children, King Anduin, but they insist so strongly that they see them-- almost every night.”

There’s a twinge of sympathy Anduin cannot help feeling; he knows all too well the frustration of being a child no one wants to take seriously. By the mother’s account, they have been seeing these things for almost a month before their pleas were finally brought to him. “Very well,” he says. “I will have more grpyhon riders stationed for a nightly post until something is found. Where did your children say they saw these birds?”

“Around the farms within the walls, your Majesty,” the woman says. “My boy says he’s even seen them fly close around the keep.”

Anduin sneaks a glance around his present councilmen. Some are curious about the claims, but most look bored or irritated. They clearly didn’t care for his quick decision to post more watchmen. They would just have to deal with it.

“Should anything be found, I will send word to your home at once,” Anduin says, watching a relieved smile take to the mother’s face. “Your children might very well be heroes if we find these giant monsters. Travel safe.”

She thanks him profusely, leaving a soft feeling of amusement about Anduin. It would be a nice change of pace to honor a couple of kids for their bravery. Perhaps he could knight them for acting for the greater good of the Alliance. He’d make a whole ceremony about it. _Molly and Little Tommy’s Coronation, Attendance Mandatory._

“-- my king. _My king_.” One of the exasperated councilmen finally startles Anduin for his attention once the woman is gone. “Shall I write a statement for… exactly _what _we’re looking for, and how many gryphons to post?”

Anduin folds his hands on his knees. “Yes. Tell the guards and the riders to keep an eye out for any large, feathered beasts. Any who are not found with a rider or a carrier of some sort should be captured, but not killed unless necessary.”

His words are scrawled with lazy strokes of the man’s quill. The councilman sighs. “And if none are found?”

“They will still be paid an extra sum for their diligence. We will keep this extra watch for only two days, if you are worried about spreading out men too thin, captain.”

The man scrawls down more notes before giving Anduin a deep, reluctant bow. The king nods, and puts on a polite smile for the next person in line.

The fog had not yet thinned by the time Anduin was fit to retire for the evening. He tries in vain to peer through its ghostly veil from the balcony outside his bedchamber. It was not unnatural weather this time of year, of course, and no one had reported it being caused by magic. It was simply an inconvenience to Stormwind’s naval fleet, as well as Anduin’s own suspicions about the children’s claims of dangerous birds. Were any to breech Stormwind’s walls again tonight, they would be using the fog to their advantage.

His cane taps along the wood floor as he crosses the room to change for bed. Water is splashed on his face, and he frees his hair to fall in a stiff wave down his shoulders. It’s still too early to sleep, he knows, but the weather has exhausted him with the aches it’s brought him.

“Winter needs to be here already,” Anduin falls into the bed and mutters to himself before a meal and some rest. As predicted, the fog would yield no results for the gryphon riders that night.

After some thought the next morning, it was decided that the search be put on hold until the first sign of fairer weather. Today was already an improvement, as the mist didn’t feel quite so chilling, and Anduin was asked to oversee repairs for a Kul Tiran ship that had arrived with its deck splintered by magical assault.

After that, he was able to send a report to Jaina about the progress and his bids that she and her mother be doing well. Then after that, it was more paperwork and citizen complaints.

Fatigue wraps around Anduin like a blanket and follows him for the duration of the day. The more he hears about losses of life and territory, the wearier he became. How dearly he longs to be away from this place, to aid the war in some better way than to be stuck in his home deciding which tax increase would be the least likely to cause a riot. He was anxious, and he was tired; _restless_ but drained. He decides to go on a walk to clear his mind a few times. Pretending he didn’t have half a dozen guards around him at all times might give him just an inkling of peace. It never did, but it was always worth trying now that he had outgrown his tendencies to sneak out his window.

Night soon settles in again. Anduin retires to his room. He changes his clothes, lounges miserably, eats his food, and puts out the candles for sleep. The same as it always was.

* * *

Something in the dead of night makes the glass of Anduin’s balcony door and windows rattle, rousing him to sit up in bed with a start. The sky is clearer tonight than it’s been in days, just barely seen twinkling with stars-- Then is obscured by the blur of a gryphon rider flying by, chasing something large and black in front of it. Anduin throws himself out of bed immediately to attach his leg and reach for his father’s sword.

Before he can run across the room for the latter, glass shatters and explodes into his chamber. Anduin covers his face with his arms, stung with only the tiniest cuts before they lower, and he gasps.

A large, black bird shakes its feathers of the debris, then locks eyes with Anduin immediately. If this was one of the beasts the children claimed to have seen, their observations were only partially accurate: It did have some resemblance of a crow, only ten times larger, and with layers upon layers of plumage that was unkempt and dirty like a diseased scavenger. Its head had small, bald patches that made it look all the more feral. But the sharp gold of its eye told Anduin it was intelligent. It was calculating its next move.

“King Anduin!” the gryphon rider yells, as Anduin throws up a holy barrier around himself to deflect the beast’s lunge. Its feet and beak scrape against the golden shield until its wings push itself away, going for the gryphon rider shooting a crossbow bolt at it instead.

The door to his chamber rattles with guards calling for their king on the other side. Anduin tries to run and unlock it, but the bird is quick to leave its prey and make an advance on him once more. He narrowly dodges its talons by diving to the floor to meet the shattered pieces of his broken windows, and paying dearly as the glass pierces and scrapes against his skin.

The bird lets out an ungodly shriek before its next attack. Anduin rolls and fires a streaming bolt of Light from his hand, the thing dodging and lunging for him again. Another barrier meets its advance, but the king can see its gnarled talons causing visible scrapes against the magical dome. It pins Anduin there between the floor and his own spell, shrieking and trying to tear his protection away from him.

Luckily, as the guards in the hall continue to fight against the door that has saved many a Wrynn from assassination attempts, more riders and soldiers on gryphons burst into the room from the ruined balcony. One with a sword chases the beast off their king with a clean sweep of his blade to the bird’s wing. It cries out, pained and angered, giving Anduin the inch he needs to crawl from the floor and make his way to the first rider, now groaning weakly from his wounds.

“Do not kill it!” Anduin orders as he heals the man. “Capture it, quickly!”

The bird fights fiercely back against their attempts to subdue it. It stands nearly as tall as a gryphon at its full height, its wingspan stretched wide in its attempt to appear larger. The moment it gets desperate enough to try and break the wall of soldiers barring it from its escape, it’s taken down swiftly with blade and netting, the creature crying out all the while it fights against them.

But within minutes of its struggle, the creature gives up under the weight of several soldiers on top of it, and is bound by its beak and wings. Anduin gives a sigh of relief. The rider he attends to does the same, giving the king a weak smile of gratitude for the wounds that close under the king’s healing hand.

“What the hell _is_ that?” one soldier asks. “It looks like a demon!”

“I don’t know,” one answers her. “It’s not undead, otherwise the king’s spells would have burned it to ash.”

“Is it what we were told to look for?” another asks, turning to Anduin as he stands and carefully hands off the healed rider to another. “I’ve never seen something like this in Stormwind before. Let alone at all, your Majesty.”

Anduin couldn’t help but agree. The creature continues to stare at the lot of them in its pacified fury. The intelligence in its eyes still botheres him greatly.

“Search for more,” he orders at once. “Make sure none are chased into the city or anyone’s homes. Capture any you find, and call for a magical study at once.”

The soldiers bow. The creature is taken from Anduin’s chamber, where his many guards no longer trapped on the other side of his door gasp at seeing horrible thing in their possession. Servants immediately pour in after to clean up the mess on the floor, and fuss over the king’s injuries. He promises there is no harm done to him, but they still make him sit down by the fireplace to pluck out the glass pieces in his skin one by one. The healing applied to those wounds are done himself, as he ponders throughout the process on what the hell that thing was.

* * *

No one had gone back to sleep since the bird’s attack. The sun was just starting to crest over the horizon, and no riders had yet returned saying they discovered more. A cage sits in the middle of the throne room where all the rest could study it. The grand doors that usually invited Stormwind’s citizens to speak to their king were closed.

Anduin sits on the throne and taps his fingers pensively against his cheek. His other was bandaged from his carelessness in avoiding the creature’s attacks. In front of him, many of his commanders and city’s most gifted with animal study discuss what they could gleam from the thing. They could not reach an agreement on its species, though the most likely of guesses were either magical mutation, something foreign off the coasts of Kul Tiras, or a rookery breeding experiment gone terrible wrong.

What bothers Anduin the most was that, somehow, the thing was almost familiar to him. He racks his brain as much as he can for a reason, but could not place what sparked that place in his mind. Locked away with no one to maim, it merely sits brooding in the middle of the cage with a hateful eye to all.

“We can take it back to the Mage District,” one observer says. “There _are_ traces of magic within it, but they are natural.”

“It is under no thrall?” Anduin asks.

The elf shakes their head. “No. Its actions were under no influence of magic, as far as I can tell. It most likely attacked out of fear, or because it was starving.”

“Or it was trained,” one commander says with a grunt. Anduin feels a twinge of hypocrisy, seeing as it was the same man who was reluctant to look into the children’s claims of the bird at all. “If these things have been seen for a month, they could be smarter than we realize. They could be stealing intel, or trying to take the king’s life like they did tonight.”

“I do not think so,” another says. “The SI:7 have reported nothing missing, and the creature only broke into the king’s chambers because it was chased.”

“Aye,” the rider Anduin healed says. “T’was not my intention, y’er Majesty. It was dark, and I did not think I be so close to ye room.”

Anduin musters a smile and reassuring gesture, palm-out. “We did not expect to find one of these things so soon with the weather,” he points out. “For now… it is more important to figure out why it is here at all.”

A sudden sound.

Every person present in the throne room immediately turns their heads toward the keep’s entrance, where the great, wooden doors to the throne room start to creak and open with the might of a lone figure slowly pushing them open from the outside.

“I believe I can answer that.”

Anduin stands from his throne. Every guard present has their weapons at the ready, surrounding the king in a semi-circle as the stranger makes their way inside. The doors close heavily as they stride up the sloping stone, the wetness of their boots suggesting they made the journey here on foot and through the heavy mist. The gathered council murmurs to each other in confusion and outrage. “You there! Halt!”

The stranger does not stop. Not until they stand on the flat stone of the throne room proper, no water dripping from their form, but clearly clinging to their dark clothes. Were it not for the moisture they had to walk through, their garments would look like the finest in all the desert sands. The boots on their feet were pointed. Large pauldrons were decorated in a way Anduin almost thought to look like feathers, before realizing they match the scale-like appearance of the stranger’s gauntlets.

Dark hair was swept back. It curled dramatically in the ocean air, long and past broad shoulders. There was a pointed beard, a sinister smile, and lax, glowing red eyes.

The room was silenced of all whispering. Anduin cannot help it when he breaks it with a breath of disbelief, as the revelation nearly knocks the wind out of him. It had been years. But the resemblance was undeniable. “Wrathion?”

There’s a grand sweep of those flashy gauntlets, as the stranger’s fingers spread wide on either side of himself, almost as if to punctuate his grand entrance with a bow. He does not bow, but the flash of a pointy grin articulates the showiness Anduin remembers all too well. “Apologies, your majesty, but I cannot stay to chat long. I merely came to take back what is mine.”

His brimstone gaze prompts Anduin’s to follow: the bird. One of the councilmen gawks at the dragon. “Are you _mad?_”

“No, but I am in a hurry,” Wrathion reasons with infuriating calm. “So if you would be so kind as to return my beloved pet, we really must be going.”

“Absolutely not!” another exclaims in disbelief. “You think you can just walk in here, claiming ownership of a creature that almost took the king’s life?”

Wrathion puts his hands in front of himself. “A simple misunderstanding, I assure you-”

“He’s a war criminal! He released Garrosh Hellscream! Gul’dan!”

“Now, gentlemen,” Wrathion says, “what part of ‘I need to be going’ don’t you understand-”

Anduin takes a heavy step down the throne’s stone stairway, making those closest to him flinch at the sound of armor falling upon it. “No,” he says in a dark, clear order. “You nor this creature are leaving this place, Prince Wrathion.”

More infuriating to Anduin still is the way Wrathion rolls his eyes with the bend of his neck. “Actually, if we are using titles, I would _prefer-”_

“You are not leaving,” Anduin says again. He continues his descent down those steps. The people present part like the sea to make way for his heavy, even strides. “By decree of the Alliance and all who have suffered for your crimes, I cannot allow you to leave this place, or let those _outside_ Stormwind’s walls know of your presence in my kingdom.”

Wrathion scoffs. “What are you going to do?” he asks, “_arrest _me?”

The last thing he sees is Anduin’s icy stare disappear behind a swarm of guards and glint of shackles.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Anduin exchanges words with Stormwind's newest prisoner.

_Desperately, Anduin reached out his hand. “You don’t have to do it this way. Tell me what’s going on. We can work together. We can find some way to--”_

“_Farewell for now, young prince,” said Wrathion. He lifted a hand, and Anduin knew no more._

– Christine Golden, _War Crimes_

Anduin would not go to the stockades until he had everyone’s word that news of Wrathion’s presence would not leave this hall, or else those who went against his orders would be punished severely. It was a threat he once would have ever dreamed of making. But today, the situation called for absolute secrecy.

The city could not know Wrathion was here. The _world_ could not know Wrathion, the Black Prince who released the Iron Horde and the events of the Legion upon them all, was here.

Anduin makes his way to the dungeons with ice cold resolve. He must be wearing that resolve stronger on his face than he realizes when the guards there give him nothing more than stiff salutes and hurried passage to the underground tunnels. They lead him all the way to the second basement floor, then return to their posts, where his own personal bodyguards follow him the rest of the way to the deepest underbelly of the stockades. Only one jail cell sat within it, and nobody else was to know who occupied it.

He holds his breath, then releases it harshly before undoing the bolt to the massive oak door. On the other side of it lies a room made of prison bars, and shackled away within it, was Wrathion.

The dragon smiles at him. “King. Anduin. Wrynn.”

It was an irritating annunciation of every consonant of Anduin’s name. He still has to convince himself over and over it is really him. The brown hue of his skin was familiar, as were the glow of his red eyes, the slit of his black pupils more catlike than reptilian. The black hair on Wrathion’s head was incredibly long and rich, making Anduin wonder if it was a decision of his human form that he made consciously, or if it had grown long naturally. Closer inspection would tell the king that it would be the case of the latter; the long hair was thick and tangled, and his bright eyes were lidded over dark circles. He looked tired. Even still, Wrathion’s smile does not waver as Anduin observes him with an equally-unwavering stare.

“Well then?” Wrathion asks when the silence stretches on. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Anduin says nothing, making the dragon roll his eyes when he gets tired of waiting for an answer. “You’re not still _mad_ like your countrymen, are you? I thought you were too _nice_ to hold a grudge.”

No reply. The king’s gaze becomes colder as he continues to stare the dragon down his nose. Wrathion had made himself at home on the floor, his wrists bound and his feet stretched leisurely out in front of himself. The fact he would not stand at a king’s presence was usually not a rule Anduin felt like getting annoyed over- but he was feeling petty today.

At last, Anduin makes a gesture of dismissal without turning around. His guards bow to him, leaving Anduin and the dragon alone after the door closes with a heavy groan behind him. He glowers at his prisoner’s smiling face through the space of the iron bars. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you executed.”

To Anduin’s further aggravation, Wrathion’s smile does not waver, and even turns coy. “Because you do not want to make a spectacle of me,” he says. “You do not even want your beloved people to know I am _here._”

“A hanging does not always have to be public,” Anduin points out with no trace of argument. “No one has seen you in years. They would never have to know.”

“And miss the opportunity to hang my head next to my dear aunt’s? Dear king, think of the upgrade to the décor.”

Anduin shows no sign of finding it humorous. After another air of heavy silence stretches between them, Wrathion sighs, folding up his knees to hang his arms lazily over them. His head tilts in regarding Anduin at the odd angle.“I know you will not kill me-- at least not yet-- because I’ve done too many things to make the world hate me, and those people would be outraged if they ever found out you offed me in secret. Plus, like I said, you are too nice. You would not take all the glory for yourself.”

“There is nothing _glorious_ about making you pay for what you’ve done,” Anduin seethes through his teeth. “It’s been years since Garrosh’s trial, Wrathion. _Years_. Do you know what happened after your stunt? Do you know what _happened_ after you disappeared?”

“Well, I--”

“Garrosh escaped to another world of what used to be Outland. Garrosh started a war that _released_ Gul’dan, who made it _necessary_ to free _Illidan __Stormrage_, who brought the _entire Legion __planet__ to __Azeroth_. Do you remember, _Wrathion?_” Anduin doesn’t realize he’s raised his voice. He’s but inches away from the bars. “Do you _remember_ when you would stop at _nothing_ to prevent the Legion from coming here? Hm? Do you remember all the batshit, _conniving_ things you did in Pandaria to prepare us? Well, guess _what_. It didn’t _matter_. _NONE_ of it mattered. It still _happened_. And it was your. _**F**__**AULT!**_”

Silence. This time, it was Wrathion who would not answer. Despite of all the anger he had thrown at him, it was Anduin who felt like he had just been slapped in the face by the force of his own shouting. He was scant to ever raise his voice.

He looks at Wrathion, and knows without a doubt what he feels now. He hated him. He hates Wrathion, for everything he had done, and then chose not to do.

He sees Wrathion watching him, still in that lazy seated position on the ground with his head lulled against the wall at one side. But the amusement has faded from his tired eyes, replaced with something pensive Anduin does not want to give the energy to figure out.

The king only sighs. He pulls out a guardman’s chair from the corner of the room and falls heavily into it in a clatter of steel. He tips his head back against the stone behind him and closes his eyes, collecting himself. He doesn’t want to look at Wrathion anymore.

Not that Wrathion has ever been known to give him the satisfaction of peace and quiet. “Is that what you think? That the Legion came, and I hid away doing nothing?”

Anduin won’t open his eyes. His voice sounds tired. “That’s what everyone thinks. I had no choice but to believe it too.”

“Because it was what everyone else believed?”

“Because my father was killed.”

Now it was quiet. Anduin can still see the red of his anger swimming behind his eyelids, but slowly, it starts to dissipate. He changes the subject toward another pressing matter. “Is that bird really your pet?”

“It is,” Wrathion says. “And yet when I came to retrieve it, I found myself locked in prison instead. Do you treat all of your less-than-stellar pet owners like this?”

Anduin’s head remains tipped back against the dungeon wall when he peels his eyes open to lidded cracks. He regards the dragon for a long while until, “Where did it come from?”

Wrathion is smiling again. “I cannot tell you.”

“Because it is where you came from, and you cannot tell me that either?” Anduin asks.

“Precisely.”

Cryptic. If Anduin had any more doubts of this truly being the Black Prince Wrathion he once knew, they were long gone by now. He sighs, running an exasperated gauntlet down his face and stretching the skin of his jaw. “I suppose you will not tell me what it is doing here, either? Are there more?”

“No, and yes. There are many more, actually, but I only let two or three out and about at a time. In which case, I do assure you I do not send them on their way to do harm.”

Anduin’s eyes narrow. “But you do send them on their way to Stormwind.”

The dragon gives a nonplussed shrug from the floor. Despite his bound wrists, he’s taken it upon himself to pick and groom at his sharp nails.

It all continues to put stone after stone of displeasure in Anduin’s gut. Not only had Wrathion boldly made himself known to him in public, but now the dragon had just admitted to some intention of sending his monstrous creatures here. Could his council have been right? Could Wrathion really be trying to steal information from the king’s spies-- or do worse?

Anduin would find out one way or another. He stands, feeling Wrathion’s eyes on his back as he pushes his way through the dungeon door to once again leave the dragon alone in the dark.

He pauses first. Looks over his shoulder with a question that seems to surprise even the Wrathion. “Where are Left and Right?”

“Ah.” Wrathion stretches his legs out in front of him again. “They are… no longer in my company.”

Anduin asks no more questions. He leaves without meeting the dragon’s eye again, hearing the bolt of the dungeon door drop back into place as he and his guards return to the keep in silence.

He was exhausted by his own anxiety the bird and Wrathion’s appearance had brought. Determined however to make it through his duties without fail, Anduin keeps himself as busy as possible, being twice the attentive figurehead to his people’s needs throughout the day. He would not let his thoughts stray and give another rise to his anger. The only thing that mattered, as far as Stormwind was concerned, was that Anduin was their good and honest king with nothing to hide, who would give his life to keep his people safe from any threat who dared tiptoe their borders. Anduin swore this over and over to himself.

It takes all of his self control not to explode into a nova of righteous anger when news of Wrathion’s disappearance-- as well as the disappearance of his monstrous bird-- reaches him that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hopefully) say goodbye to the last of the short chapters from here on out. Thank you for all the nice comments/kudos thus far! <3


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is brewing within Karazhan, and Anduin, unwillingly, has to find out what.

Wrathion’s escape was in the whisper of every advisor who was in the know of his arrival in the first place. They did not need to hide their opinions from Anduin in hushed whispers whenever he walked by: He knows they wished he had simply killed Wrathion the second he walked through those doors. As cruel as the thought was, Anduin couldn’t help but privately agree from time to time.

Two more days would pass without sight of the dragon anywhere, subsiding Anduin’s anger to a numbing paranoia festering within himself. He shouldn’t have kept it a secret. Now Wrathion was gone, and all his own secrets had disappeared with him. Would he return? Would he wreck havoc on the kingdom, or take his folly elsewhere? Exploit the keep’s weaknesses?

By the fourth night, Anduin begrudgingly accepts that these events cannot be changed, and he would move on. His captain was finally eager to agree with him to expend more night watchmen-- to capture the dragon, of course, not some stupid birds-- but Anduin decides that he will call off the search in the morning.

He puts his book away, going about his nightly rituals before crawling into bed and willing himself to sleep. It was a hard task as of late, but it was better than toiling his own thoughts for another hour more.

* * *

He was no longer the heavy sleeper he’d been as a child, ever since the day he was crowned king and knew all eyes of the Horde would be upon him. It is what helps him hear the sound of curtains being drawn aside, and barely-silent footfalls making contact with his floor. His back was to his still-broken balcony, only sealed shut by boards to keep the weather out, and heavy drapery that concealed the entire eyesore until the repairs were to be complete. It would be the perfect opportunity for any thief, Anduin thinks, or an assassin.

His eyes were open to the other side of the room. Someone was avoiding their shadow being caught by the hearth’s fire, but Anduin knew; the intruder’s step creaks on the hardwood at the foot of his bedside.

In an instant, Anduin sits forward and twists himself around, a spell of holy fire in his hand that he lunges unflinching toward them. The spell is dodged, and his wrist seized hard enough to force a hiss through his teeth. He tries to ignite his other hand, but to his bewilderment, it is merely slapped away as he is held aloft by the one arm.

He blinks quickly to adjust his eyes to the darkness and the hearth’s flame. At first, what he sees runs his blood cold. A green face stares at his, with jarring tusks and unfriendly gold eyes. It was truly the day he would meet his end to a Horde assassin.

And then he realizes, and exclaims, “_Left--_”

She slaps her other hand over his mouth. It probably wasn’t meant to hurt, but she was far larger than Anduin. Still, the relief that washed through him made him stop resisting her, and she releases her hold on him. A finger went to her lips.

“Your Majesty?” one of the guards outside calls. “Is everything alright in there?”

Anduin looks back at Left, who glances to the door. What he sees comforts him further: Right, Wrathion’s human bodyguard with her body in a crouch, ready for whatever resistance Anduin’s guards might unleash should they get inside. She breaks her stoic demeanor briefly to smile and wave at him, then resumes staring back at the closed entrance. There’s a nod that Anduin takes as a cue.

“Yes, I am fine,” Anduin says, faking sleepiness in his voice. “-- giving marching orders in my sleep.”

Right shoots him a thumbs-up. When no other inquiries come forth from the other side of the door, Left motions Anduin to follow her to the far curtained side of the room. He grabs his cane and hobbles over.

Anduin didn’t hold nearly as much malice in his heart for Left and Right as he did their employer. It had also been Garrosh’s trial when he had less seen them, and they were the same as ever as far as he could tell. Left was an incredible woman of great stature and even greater, hardier muscle. Never once did Anduin ever see a smile around her tusks, and her golden eyes were as sharp as a wolf’s. Right was always a little friendlier, though never one to get distracted from her task. She was smaller, stealthier, and the secret envy of Anduin’s SI:7 that accompanied him in Pandaria. Despite the two Blacktalons’ professionally stoic nature, Anduin always liked their company. Even if they did knock him out that one time.

“You’re coming with us,” Left says before Anduin can speak. “No changing. We’re leaving, now.”

“Wait,” Anduin hushes. “Are you kidnapping me?”

“Depends on how much you resist,” Left replies. She wasn’t trying to be funny.

Anduin’s fingers drum on the head of his cane. It had only been the other day he had mused to himself his abandoned habits of sneaking out of his room at night. He asks slowly, “Are you taking me to Wrathion?”

“Yes.”

So it would seem that some habits never truly die. That flame of anger he had tried for days to snuff out reignites in him. That’s all Anduin needed to agree to follow them.

* * *

Though wasting time by changing into proper clothing was discouraged, Anduin was allowed to put on his boots and wrap a cloak around himself. The rogues help the king onto one of the gryphons they had waiting; a breed that was tan rather than the gold and white ones the kingdom kept. Anduin recalls distractedly they were found closer to the south, as he settles behind Right, and they take off into the night sky.

The reasoning for their haste was so that Anduin could return before the sun was up, and no one would know their king had gone missing. It was supposed to reassure him that he would not be kept as a prisoner. As much as he likes Left and Right, Anduin still has his reasons not to trust anything a rogue says.

The rest of the world was asleep under their wings. They fly over the mountains, straddling the hazy borders of Elwynn and Redridge and the scattered villages between their valleys. The fact that they were traveling east makes Anduin suspect Wrathion had cozied himself up in the Blasted Lands. It was a suspecting thought he did not care for.

To both his relief and surprise, the gryphons instead veer toward the darker forest lands in the south. They start to fly over Deadwind Pass. Or so Anduin thought: It was not that they were flying _over_ the dusty canyon, but _into_ it. His heart begins to beat in a dreaded rhythm against Right’s back.

Karazhan stood unchallenged in the center of his vision, bearing the glaring reminder of all the wicked things that once inhabited it, and too of all the things that once used its hall for a greater good. Its bricks had grown faded of their mortar, making the tower appear to stand tall as one solid, carved stone. Were it not for all the chipping and missing bricks, that is. Since the efforts against the Legion, Anduin knew of no one who would dare approach it again. It’s probably what confuses him greatly to notice what appeared to be an old party streamer caught in one of its decorative spires.

The three of them land in front of the keep’s monstrous gates and quickly dismount. It was so dark that Anduin could barely see, but something above them caught his eye-- several somethings. Birds? Large birds, black as the night sky--

Anduin gapes. The dreaded carrion creatures circle above the canyon for a meal, or perch themselves along Karazhan’s many rooftops to stare down at the newcomers. He knew them to be native here-- thus answering the pressing questions about the beasts flying into his kingdom-- though it only connects so many dots about their appearance in Stormwind. Did Wrathion really consider them his pets? Was he _training_ them?

“King Anduin,” Left grunts. Anduin turns around and sees Right and the orc holding one of the side gate entrances above their heads. He shuffles over to them quickly, having no choice but to be the first to enter. Cobwebs greet them, as do so many rats that scurry off into their hiding places. The hall in front of them was littered with rotting wood from the walls, and large beams that once fell from the ceiling. The creak of the old foundation bade them to step lightly.

Anduin pushes his hair from his face as he follows the rogues. One of his many sacrifices upon coming here in haste was that it hung loose and windswept from their flight. He narrowly avoids tripping over a destroyed love seat. Left rightens him, and they press forward down another corridor just as ruined as the last.

After what feels like hours of wandering aimlessly from one hallway to another, the first clue of Wrathion’s whereabouts comes from the flicker of candlelight Anduin can see pour from the entryway of a large parlor. A curtain hung on one side of it as a door, its color still as vibrant as the day it was made, but its bottom hem had suffered from many a hungry rodent. Right pushes the fabric aside. Anduin stares at what he sees.

Either the room they are in is an illusion, or its previous residents have kept it _tremendously_ well taken care of. Its walls were not ruined with anything resembling battle or age, but had fine carvings beneath what could very well be fresh lavender paint. More curtains hang from the ceiling, too high to be the victims of a vengeful rat or two, while clean tables host finely-crafted chairs, a sofa, a few paintings that bear the still-colorful faces of nobles Anduin could not name, that were yet to be hung somewhere. Filled bookcases. Patterned rugs. The smell of tea and a fireplace…

And Wrathion. The dragon had his back turned upon the three’s arrival, but regards them now with his arms out on either side of him in greeting. An almost excited grin takes to his face, made sinister by the points of his teeth. “King Anduin Wrynn! You made it. Good, good.”

He wears a white turban Anduin remembers well, though wrapped closer around his head with its usual loose flap to hang over one pauldron, his dark hair buried out of sight underneath the entire thing. His clothes were the same as he had strided into his throne room in, with dark fabrics dry from any nasty weather, golden clasps and buttons that made themselves at home on his ensemble where they may. The coat he wears was almost in a similar style than Anduin’s own favorite blue and gold. The pointed shoes were still ridiculous, but nevertheless a signature aesthetic. He appears better rested than Anduin could recall back in Stormwind as well. It makes him suspicious of his intent all over again.

“You’ve been here,” is all he can say in disbelief. “This whole time. _Here._”

Wrathion drops his arms to perch his chin on one of his knuckles. “Not the whole time, your Majesty. But lately. Yes. Come in! I have something I want to show you.”

Left and Right make their way further into the room to stand post somewhere, but Anduin does not follow. He stares at the dragon. “Why?” he asks. “I haven’t seen you in years and kept you as a _prisoner_. Why are you talking to me like we are friends?”

A vengeful, minuscule part of Anduin was almost hoping that would strike a chord. But Wrathion only turns on his heel and waves a hand at him. “You’ll see! I have been dying to share my progress with someone. That someone might as well be you. You’ll like it.”

Anduin’s steps were heavy with reluctance. He follows only after Wrathion had disappeared behind another curtain, waited, then poked his head out to beckon the king with an impatient hand. He tries to tell himself that if this were truly a ploy to end his life, Wrathion probably would have just told Left and Right to push him off the gryphon. “You told me your bodyguards were no longer with you.”

“Yes, they were no longer with me in _Stormwind_. Now we are together again.”

Anduin wanted to throw something at him.

The room on the other side of the curtain was similar to the other, but smaller. Anduin blinks a few times when he notices what appeared to be an alchemy station on one desk. Chemicals of unknown origins sat in beakers or over a few, low flames. A larger scattering of hand-written notes on the floor and the corners of every available surface were the only things that disturbed the feeling of Karazhan’s one, pristine corner being untouched by some sort of mess. Wrathion was waiting outside one last hanging curtain, and Anduin had to resist groaning at his game of guesses and hidden prizes.

“I told you in your throne room that I could not stay long,” Wrathion says, “and to that, I was being truthful. The things I have dedicated myself to in this place require my constant vigilance.”

Anduin regards him with deep concentration in fighting away any curiosity that might cross his face. He would not give Wrathion the satisfaction of indulging his mysterious endeavors. “Your birds?”

“They are only a small part of it,” Wrathion admits. “I do apologize for their grotesque appearance, though. I swear they were like that when I got here. A pastime of Medivh’s, I’m assuming, or they gobbled up a silly relic they probably shouldn’t have...”

Anduin’s eyebrows flatten into something deadpan. Wrathion notices, and makes a show of clearing his throat as if he were about to announce something grand. “Regardless! Thanks to your _generous_ decision to spare my life-”

“You escaped the stockades--”

“- I have to decided to express my gratitude by showing you a _glimpse_ of my research, one that I have slaved over for many years since our last adventure. All I ask in return is your confidence.” He does not move out of reach of the curtain, but takes a step forward toward Anduin, a fierce look of expectancy on his humanoid face. “Do I have your word?”

Anduin scoffs in his annoyance. “Are you _kidding_ me-”

The dragon’s face darkens. “Do I have your _word_, King Anduin Wrynn?”

The intensity of Wrathion’s voice surpasses the fierce glow of his eyes. In it, Anduin can hear what he’s suspected ever since he was brought here: Wrathion could hurt him, or have him killed, if he wanted to. Whatever it is that Wrathion had poured himself to in his years of absence, it was something he would get rid of the human for if Anduin threatens it in any way. Something life changing, at least to the dragon, was beyond that veil.

Anduin bites the inside of his cheek. He would not lose his composure in front of the prince again. He nods, slowly, as Wrathion’s lips slowly twist back into an unsettling grin.

“Look closely. What I have here is what will restore the black dragonflight.”

Before he has a chance to let the horror of Wrathion’s words sink in, Anduin watches the curtain be drawn away to reveal a small, unsuspecting alcove. On the floor was a large, ornate cushion that sat under… Under…?

It looked like a stone. A round, heavy stone with irregular bumps around the sides Anduin could see. For all he could tell, it looked like anything that could break from a cliff in a rockslide. He looks back up at Wrathion, who is only beaming back at him. The dragon mouths the words _‘go on’_ around his lips, basking in silent delight. Anduin gives him a flat look before indulging him in another step closer toward the stone.

Up close, it looks just the same as the king first observed. It was large enough that Anduin suspected neither he nor Wrathion would be able to carry it by himself-- not in human forms, anyway. The dragon probably flew it here in his talons, or made his Blacktalons cart it here for him.

“Okay,” Anduin sighs exasperatedly. “I give up. What is it?”

He flinches when Wrathion suddenly hops to his side and kneels in front of the pillow, pulling on Anduin’s arm until the man complies and does the same. His red eyes shine bright as he speaks. “It is _salvation_, King Anduin Wrynn. For me, for my flight, for _all_ of Azeroth. Do you not see it? Look closer. As hard as you can.”

At first, Anduin only looks at him in disbelief. Wrathion notices, shooting him that fierce, unsettling glare again before the king rolls his eyes. He does as he’s told, leaning forward until his nose is but a foot away from the stone.

For the life of him, he still could not place what Wrathion wanted him to see. Some small cracks and flaking along the surface of the round stone suggested it was very old. The bumps around it were strange as well, but they appeared natural to Anduin. Rocks were bumpy. So what.

It took a tilt to his head for Anduin to realize something. He did not look at Wrathion, but could sense the dragon watching him with buzzing anticipation as the king shifts on his knees. Anduin shuffles to observe the stone from another side. He lays a finger on it without the dragon protesting. The digit connects one inconspicuous bump to another, then another, all on the same angled line. The large ridges of this stone were not irregular at all, but completely equidistant from one another. Like they were meant to be there. It had been created this way a long, long time ago.

When Anduin asks the same question, it is not with a tone of annoyance. He is very quiet. “What is it, Wrathion?”

A hand rests on the other side of the stone. Wrathion and him keep their place upon it together, as the dragon’s face splits slowly into a grin back at him. “A fossil,” he breathes. “The egg of my own kin, dormant and forgotten from thousands and thousands of years ago.”

Several emotions seize Anduin in quick succession: Shock, bewilderment, confusion, a little bit of denial of such a thing existing somewhere in the middle. So too do several questions race to meet his tongue. “A fossil. Where the hell did you get a_ black dragon fossil_\-- what do you even mean to do with it-?”

But just as quickly as Wrathion had pulled Anduin into their crouch, he’s on his feet and pushing at the protesting king’s back to lead him away from the egg. The curtain conceals it once more as the pair stop in front of the dormant alchemy station. Anduin’s head is spinning from all the come and go of life-changing surprises. “That is _exactly_ what I wanted to show you,” Wrathion starts to prattle excitedly. “Ordinarily, life cannot be re-conceived from this state. Sure, you have walking dinosaur bones and the earth that moves from a shaman’s hands-- but to undo the hands of time that has left this clutch forever lost, to bring it to our world to be reawakened and _hatched _naturally, we must do more. _I_ must do more. And I will. I already have.”

Anduin is then released from the pushing, readjusting his cloak as he watches the dragon move in a frenzy from one end of desk to the other. He has several reagents among the vials and notes, some the king recognizes as ordinary herbs.

But the dragon reveals one item in particular that paralyzes Anduin. It was an artifact of solid, decorated gold, about as large as Wrathion’s torso as he held it out in front of himself with both hands. It did not look heavy however, for it was broken.

Anduin recognizes it immediately. It was an hourglass. Not just any hourglass, however. “Wrathion. What did you _do_.”

In his hands was the Vision of Time: a tool of powerful Bronze magic that served in the trial of Garrosh Hellscream. The dragon Kairozdormu had used it in one part, and Chronormu the other, before Kairoz had betrayed them all and destroyed it-- with Wrathion’s aid. The gold of its casting was chipped and dulled from abuse. The glass of course had been busted out of it, rendering all future use of its magic impossible. There wasn’t even a single grain in it.

Even still, the dragon holds that excited grin as Anduin stares dumbstruck back at him. “Isn’t it marvelous? It took ages to find all its pieces, but my Blacktalons and I did it. Do not worry, it is permanently deactivated now. The sands were the most difficult to reconstruct with the same means of the Vision. I have extracted all I could from it, and with a few more preparations it and the other tools I have gathered, will be ready to--”

Anduin doesn’t know who fell to the ground first, but he knows he landed his fist in Wrathion’s face as he intended to, and that’s all he needed.

Unfortunately, Left and Right were just as quick to knock the king off his feet. A swipe of a leg underneath both of his own, and the back of Anduin’s head hits the floor with a loud _thud _as he groans, opening his eyes just to startle at the two crossbows pointed at his face.

He doesn’t dare turn his gaze away from the weapons, but he can hear Wrathion snort then spit from across his landing. “… ah. Left, Right. That will… not be necessary.”

Anduin watches the two rogues exchange reluctant glances before lowering the crossbows. They take a step back. Anduin slowly pushes himself up on his elbows, with flashes of white still dotting his vision.

The hourglass was back on the desk as Wrathion was picking himself up in front of it, his head tipped back and fingers pinching the bridge of a bloody nose. Satisfaction welled within Anduin. He got back on his feet and refused to allow a wince for the throbbing in the back of his skull.

“Yes,” Wrathion says at last, predictably sounding congested. “I am not saying you are right, but it was fair. Very good.”

Anduin rubs the wrist of his assaulting hand. “I’m leaving,” he announces coolly. “Your bodyguards will take me back. Now.”

Wrathion’s eyes narrow to him, and the two of them stare each other down. Anduin keeps his face composed, and sees Wrathion was doing the same; but there was no denying the sharp anger that added an extra lick of fire red to his eyes. Anduin hopes his own matches in his fury. He would not be persuaded into thinking Wrathion’s actions-- the ones that led to so much loss of life-- were justified.

Slowly, the dragon crosses the room, not breaking eye contact with the king in his strides and his fingertips now held delicately upon the bridge of his nose. He lowers himself into a parlor chair, one leg neatly folding over the other. He studies Anduin for much longer than was comfortable. Then, he says, “Very well. Left, Right.”

The rogues put their hands on the king’s back. He does not look away from Wrathion for as long as the dragon continues to hold his gaze. “I am disappointed, King Anduin Wrynn. I was so hoping my research would sway your newfound impression of me.”

“Goodbye, Prince Wrathion.” Left and Right persuade him toward the parlor exit. He breaks their intense gaze. “I will tell no one of your presence here, so long as you never step foot in my kingdom again.”

The sun was just starting to kiss the horizon in shades of violet when Wrathion’s bodyguards put Anduin on a gryphon and led him home. He would not have time to sleep before his duties called for him. As he dresses, Anduin knows without a doubt, that he never wants to see the monster that was the Black Prince ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY. LOOK AT THE FIC FANART I GOT FOR MY BIRTHDAY LAST WEEK AND TELL PHSFG ON TUMBLR IT'S AMAZING.
> 
> https://sneakyfeets.tumblr.com/post/187120744040/bonus-its-my-wifes-birthday-so-i-paid-phsfg-to


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even when in the presence of Outland's black dragons, Wrathion realizes just how truly alone he is in his quest to be their salvation.

King Anduin Wrynn and the Blacktalons take their leave from Karazhan swiftly. Wrathion does not bid them goodbye, but instead remains seething in his chair with a bloody nose held between his fingers. Most likely the soft bone was broken. Usually, a few changes into his dragon form would guarantee it and any other injuries to his human body being good as new by the time he shifted again.

But it was a persistent annoyance, and this was not the wisest place to change into his larger form. So, taking advantage of his precious minutes of solitude, Wrathion braces himself, and _yanks_ the human tissue in the bridge of his nose into a less disastrous place. A shout is forcibly cut short with many hisses and stamp of his boots on the floor, trying to make a distraction out of many sensations to steer away from the pain. It _hurt_. It throbbed less, but _still__._

Wrathion growls. He sits more upright in his seat now, forcing himself in total poise. Where was he? Oh, yes: Back to seething, as he wipes the last of his blood dripping from his nostril across the back of his hand. The force of King Anduin's rejection was one he had not been prepared for. Scorn and anger for his absence, of course, Wrathion does not blame him. But to turn his back on Wrathion’s own life’s work? The blood of his blood, on the brink of rebirth? The dragon simply cannot wrap his head around the idea. When he and the king were young, all Anduin loved to do was tell Wrathion how much he disapproved of the dragon chasing mogu and killing his own kind.

It had always been odd to Wrathion, the way the then-prince thought Wrathion’s slaying in poor taste. Varian and Anduin Wynn’s bad luck with black dragons was legendary-- very much so in the case of the former-- except Anduin had only regarded the Black Prince’s existence with unspoken caution before they were to become friends. They bickered with one another constantly, sure; but they were also inseparable while in that tavern. Why could he not see that Wrathion’s methods were necessary to restore his family’s legacy? Would Anduin not have been glad to see him bring life, instead of all the death he had wrought to bring on all those old lectures?

He sniffs out of his good nostril. No matter. Wrathion was no longer a prince, and his methods are different now. He just has to accept that King Anduin is no longer the ally he thought he had, and that will be that.

A long, exasperated sigh escapes from his lips. He readjusts his turban neatly on his head with one hand. Well. He still has one task he needs to do before Left and Right return. The only thing that can calm the dread within Wrathion at the reminder is imagining his bodyguards pushing King Anduin Wrynn from his gryphon, down the chimney of his bedroom hearth. He would never order such a thing, but it was a short comfort all the same.

Making sure the Vision of Time is set safely back in its place, Wrathion then leaves the room with a spin of an only mildly-determined heel.

The curtain door to the parlor is flapped aside. The desolate halls of Karazhan greet him in all its musty glory, the many holes in its high ceilings making the dragon's footsteps echo endlessly in the carcasses of the towers. No robots or arcane familiars roam this place to maintain its upkeep now. Only Wrathion and his Blacktalons remain, and he only required very few of the Guardian's old luxuries.

The parlor was not the only place in Karazhan kept in impeccable condition to its former residents’ liking. Down several corridors, up a spiral staircase and across a banister Wrathion has to leap over like an unpredictable jungle bridge, there lay the grandest room of all: Karazhan's library, where the dragon had spent many of their first weeks of arriving to this place.

“Old Guardian luxuries" were the most abundant here; though no sorcerer had stepped foot in this place for some time, their handiwork continues to be seen right before Wrathion's eyes: Enchanted feather dusters move thoroughly across every shelf, or brooms give the rugs on the floor the very same care.

Heavy tomes sometimes float slowly off the shelves of gargantuan bookcases just to disappear into some place Wrathion's eyes cant follow, returning with the rot of their leather bindings repaired, their pages no longer stained, or the ink fresh. This was not a place knowledge came to die. To those who cherished it enough to construct this place, it was where ancient knowledge lived forever. Which was exactly what Wrathion needed.

He strides into the grand hall with purpose, navigating on autopilot to the row of bookcases he's graced so many times. He stops, stands on his toes, a finger tracing the spine of the book he knows is the one he requires again. He tips it carefully out of its resting place, straining the muscles of his arm until the tome is eased into his line of sight, and into his hands with a triumphant hum.

Wrathion still doesn't like what he has to do. But time is running out, and Left and Right would berate him for taking on this endeavor again. Knowing that King Anduin Wrynn would not truly perish no matter how many times Wrathion tries to imagine it, he reassures himself instead that this will be the very last time he has to call upon any unwanted company.

The book shoved safely under his arm, Wrathion hurries out of the aisle of towering book cases and back to the grand library floor. There are dozens of desks for him to drop the tome on to, where he sets the thing on its spine and flips impatiently through the pages. Could the unseen forces that keep these books from rotting talk, they too would also berate his crude handling of their precious tomes.

Then, there it is. Wrathion peers down at the familiar page, double, _triple_ checking ink upon it before taking the entire book in one arm and digging into his coat with the other.

A piece of chalk, a steady hand-- it’s all he needs. He’s perfected this ritual by now, and King Anduin had the audacity to brush his labors aside. Well! He'll show him.

Wrathion crosses the floor to a place in the room the animated dust sweepers had already cleared since his last doings: a wall, a perfect blank canvas of fine wood between two shelves. The tome under the dragon’s arm, still open to the page he had sought, gets placed on the floor where Wrathion starts to copy the runes printed on the page and to the wall. The language, he knows the origin of: An early form of Common, from the days where humans were the sole bipedal races of Azeroth clever enough to _construct _language. One final stroke of his hand, and the spell was soon complete.

Wrathion takes a step back, pocketing the chalk back in his coat and taking a deep breath before placing his hand in the center of the rune he had drawn.

The dragon was not the magical type-- not counting his own natural magic, that is-- but Karazhan had taught him well the possibilities of wielding the arcane if one studied hard enough. The circle of runes glow blue around his hand, and Wrathion has just enough wit to draw the limb away before his entire body falls through the portal that grows before him.

He releases the breath he was holding in an unsettled huff. Well. Best to get it over with, he decides, and steps through.

* * *

The air that greets Wrathion is heavy with dust and glaring heat. Though the latter does not bother him, he had never quite mastered being immune to the former, and he coughs once. This barren wasteland was easily among his least favorite places to venture to. He groans to himself, waits for another suffocating breeze to push at his back, and changes into his draconic form to take off in flight.

The world below his wings was an ugly sight, but one he had reluctantly become well acquainted with this past year. The mountains that rose from the jagged earth were sharpened naturally to points, as if they threatened to pierce the sky at the smallest threat of rain.

Not that Outland had seen its share of natural weather in decades. The dying rock was only visited by meteors that effortlessly pierced the crumbling planet with little atmosphere to burn through, or thunder that rumbled in the cosmos that served as an ever-present anomaly for the poor inhabitants that watched the sky go unchanged, always the same, with no night and day to discern from.

Many people thought Wrathion was oblivious to the black dragons that inhabited this dying wasteland. But oh, he knew their presence well. He swore to his Blacktalons many times that those clever beasts would meet their end soon enough. Yet clever they were, Wrathion had come to give them credit for. Here, the dragonflight was free of the bloody whispers that forever stained Azeroth's soil with madness. The only price for these dragons was that they were to live out the rest of their long, immortal lives on a crumbling planet-- and crumbling it was.

Wrathion could hear it. It would be a miracle if Outland was not but a million crumbs floating through the Nether at the end of the century. The Legion made sure it was not capable of recovering.

Nevertheless: Wrathion continues his flight, weaving through each jagged stone that threatens to impale him. It would be half an hour's time before he spies a vast canyon yawning below him. The mountains rose at a slanted angle above the massive hole, almost like a shelter-- A cruel one, but some had decided to call this wretched place their home. And it was a homestead Wrathion was still reluctant to visit.

He starts to spiral toward his descent. Here, the heat did not lessen, but continues to beat down angrily at every inch of red stone below Wrathion’s wings. The shade of the massive stone spires above his head promised cool refuge to those who sought it. The subject of his arrival, however, did not have such concerns today.

At a distance, still far below Wrathion, a great form of black scales can be seen sunbathing in the sunlight of Outland's closest star. Though Wrathion was reluctant to admit it, his own draconic form was still growing, still about the size of an adolescent drake. But the dragon he lands quietly behind...

He was enormous. His scales were weathered with his age, of which Wrathion knew without a doubt was at least two millennia over his own. His neck was long, and his head rested contently on his front paws. Orange fins rested against his skull and back, the ones around his aged face soon giving the smallest flare of annoyance at Wrathion's arrival.

It had taken months to earn his trust, of which Wrathion learned not to badger the large dragon with his impatience and prattle. Still, as Wrathion sits on his haunches and waits quietly, his tail cannot help lashing back and forth across the dusty stone.

At last, a thundering yawn sounds, and the dragon slowly cranes his long neck off the ground and behind him, just enough to peer at Wrathion with a sleep-lidded, amber eye.

"So,” he rumbles. “You are back.”

"As per our agreement," Wrathion reminds him stingily. "Yes, I have returned."

The old dragon won't deign him with an immediate response. He yawns again, well-mannered in volume this time. He's slow to get to his paws, but Wrathion knows it has nothing to do with ailment or age. He just enjoys trying to waste the young dragon’s time. It was working.

"Very well," the great lizard rumbles again. "Follow me. And do not touch anything.”

His great wings unfold for flight. Wrathion’s do the same, and the two of them take off together from the canyon ledge to the deeper, sunlit crevices below.

There, Wrathion can see just a few more drakes: The old man's brood, the children of him and his dead mate killed by gronn that have long-since been slain by a lover’s wrath. The younger drakes do not flinch at their father or Wrathion's flight overhead, merely continuing to bask in the sun or converse quietly with one another.

It was strange, but since Wrathion and Sabellian had become somewhat of acquaintances, the presence of so many black dragons did not disturb him. Part of him would always have that itch of fear that corruption might still run through their veins-- But as the two of them touch back down onto the earth of Sabellian's home, Wrathion could hear the planet's voice again through his paws: There were no Old Gods here. Only decay, as Outland loses a bit more of itself to the Nether with each passing minute.

A great cave lies in front of them. Despite being an adequate size for Wrathion's growing form to walk through, he watches as Sabellian is forced to take on his human form to continue passage. Dark hair sits nearly on his shoulders that were decorated with snake-like pauldrons, accenting his robes of orange and crimson. Like Wrathion, and many others of their kind, his human skin was dark, and his draconic eyes unnaturally bright. They regard Wrathion tiredly as he holds out a hand to halt Wrathion's approach halfway through the threshold. "Not another step. You'll break something."

Wrathion snorts. He stays as bidden. Sabellian continues his way to one cavern wall, where an alchemic setup much grander than the one Wrathion kept in Karazhan sits in wait. Potions bubble, and shelves carved into the stone hold reagents by the score. The man had once told Wrathion he used to trade adventurers pretty trinkets for rare ingredients, but had since grown tired of visitors. It struck Wrathion in a way as familiar to his own old habits, and he did not care to reminisce on it.

He cranes his long, draconic neck to watch Sabellian pull out a potion and examine it, tapping at the glass and watching the reaction take place. Then he sets it down, searching through the shelves for some unknown ingredient to break and pinch into the concoction.

Wrathion balks. "I thought you were done by now--"

He's silenced by a dark glare over the alchemist's shoulder. Wrathion shuts his maw, but shoots a stink eye as soon as Sabellian's back is turned. "It is finished. But it will dilute and dull if you do not use it quickly enough."

The potion is picked up again, examined with the same tap of Sabellian's nails, then given a noise that is more or less approving. Then the flask is at last corked with a stopper, as Wrathion is beckoned to take his careful steps into the cave. "The root should give you only a couple of days before it is dissolved and the solution useless,” Sabellian says. “I will not be making you another."

Wrathion glowers at him. Seemingly satisfied, Sabellian puts the potion in a nearby satchel, and the young dragon takes it in his claws. "I thank you for your generosity,” he forces himself to grovel. “You will not regret this."

Except Sabellian's eyes narrow; he has not forfeited the satchel into Wrathions possession quite yet. "Be sure that I do not," he warns. "Do not forget what you promised me, little brother."

Their eyes meet, the second staredown Wrathion is forced to indulge in today. His own red eyes challenge the man's for several beats of tension.

Finally, Sabellian draws away. Wrathion secures the satchel in his clutches. "I have not forgotten," he swears in a low voice. "No one will be able to forget what we have achieved today."

Sabellian makes a noise in his throat, almost like a laugh. "Yes,” he says coldly. “No one could forget achievements the likes of your own, O Dragonslayer."

It was not meant to be praise.

They exchange only a few words before Wrathion departs. Many black dragons raise their heads to watch him emerge from the cavern into the sun, but offer no word of farewell. Like their father, Wrathion knows they coldly, and openly, despise him.

Yes; Wrathion had not at all been oblivious to their presence in his youth. Likewise, the black dragons of Outland knew well of the blood on his hands, as the Black Prince had believed that he was cleansing his own corrupted flight in the name of redeeming them. They did not see Wrathion as their savior. Were his plans to awaken the ancient egg actually succeed, he did not know if they would ever regard him differently. As far as the young dragon knew, those dragons and King Anduin Wrynn shared the very same look of hatred in their eyes.

With nothing more to gain, Wrathion crouches low, then takes off into the air and out of the canyon with Sabellian’s satchel secure in his clutches. He reminds himself again that this would be the last he has to navigate through the threatening spires, and the last time he must endure the loathing stares of his own kind. They mattered not. One day, they will thank him. They all will.

It doesn’t surprise Wrathion when he conjures a runic portal back to Karazhan, changing into his human form to find Left and Right already waiting for him on the other side. The rogues say nothing, so the dragon decides he doesn’t owe them an explanation, either. He brushes past them, and they merely follow.

When they find themselves in the parlor once more, Wrathion is given his privacy to sweep into the small chamber of his work. The small alchemy station remains, as does the dormant Vision of Time. And, most important of all, the dormant egg that the dragon pushes aside the curtain concealing it to regard.

He sighs, a wistful thing. “Soon, little creature. There are great things in store for you.”

It is soon hidden away behind the curtain again. Wrathion returns to the table of brewing potions to carefully extract the one Sabellian had given him, setting it aside as the rest of the satchel is searched. There are a pile of notes that the old man had apparently prepared for him, of which Wrathion was secretly grateful. Sabellian’s threat that there would be no second batch was not the only thing weighing heavily over Wrathion’s ambitions-- There could be no mistakes at all, or the hatchling would not get its chance at life. Everything must be executed perfectly. He had limited time to make sure of this.

He starts to pour over Sabellian’s detailed scrawlings; the man had been kind enough to include his spellwork, and what few layman’s methods could be used to acquire the desired results. The brew was not one single potion on its own, but actually the final ingredient Wrathion needed to add to his own alchemic breakthrough. Afters years of research, this was it. _This_ is the thing that will save them all, and prove Wrathion’s worth of his infamous deeds.

But as he reads further and further down the pages, a sickly feeling courses through Wrathion and produces a wretched growl from his throat. Alas, Sabellian advised the need of a test, first.

Wrathion had been thorough of recounting to the old dragon what his concoction had contained, and Sabellian had spent the last few months perfecting the last ingredient into liquid form. But even still, the solution was dangerous, and potent enough to eventually dull if not used quickly. Like poison on a blade or in someone’s food, Wrathion hazily muses.

But even worse, the control of the test was something Wrathion did not have on hand, and knows Sabellian would not forfeit even if he _did_ have it.

Unfortunately, he knows one person who does. The same person whose rejection of Wrathion’s miracle research still chews away at the dragon in bafflement. He did not _need _King Anduin Wrynn anymore than he needed the human’s threat of tying a noose around his neck. He won’t humor the idea! That blonde bastard, after how honest Wrathion had bared himself by giving him the _privilege_ of being the first audience Wrathion had presented his work to...

The notes get slapped down on the desk. Wrathion squeezes his eyes shut and _sighs_.

Maybe King Anduin's good faith of him did not have to be forever lost after all. Maybe, _just maybe_, if he did not have the support of his own kin in Outland, Wrathion could still win the admiration of an old friend. Then throw it in his face when the human is swept up in amazement at his feats as a hero. Dragon slayer? He would be a dragon _savior._

It was still a bad idea, though. But it was better than dwelling-- and Wrathion would_ not _dwell-- on the loneliness of being Azeroth’s last Black Dragon if the egg was lost. Then he truly would have turned his back on his beloved world for nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to yulon, who well know owns our hearts in anything and everything Sabellian.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one final measure Wrathion needs to take before reawakening the black dragon fossil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps my knee like an old prospector* I DID IT I made a slightly-longer chapter. Warning for talks of blood and teeth.

Anduin was suffering. He did not get a chance to sleep after Left and Right had returned him to Stormwind, and the last few paranoid days since Wrathion's abrupt appearance would have continued to plague his mind anyway even if he did sleep. He struggles to suppress his yawns throughout the day, or even worse, to keep his eyes open when he is sitting. Deciding to wear his heavy armor was supposed to be uncomfortable enough to deter his sleepiness, but even it somehow felt as inviting as any of his nightclothes.

A part of Anduin knows he can simply go back to bed for a quick nap. He also knows he can’t skirt his duties just because he was foolish enough to sneak off and humor Wrathion. In spite of how angry the whole ordeal had made him, he was still determined to keep his word and not let anyone know of the dragon’s whereabouts, and let Stormwind-- and its king-- be rid of him for good.

Yet he was practically dead on his feet by noon. He surprises his guards when he changes direction from the war room to the kitchens without warning, politely but insistently asking the off-duty staff there for a brew of coffee. Since when did he like coffee? Since never, that’s when. Desperate times called for desperate, caffeine-enabled measures.

He was nursing his third cup when good news reached him for the first time in what felt like ages: Jaina Proudmoore would be returning to Stormwind for another short respite. Not only that, but she would be bringing Taelia Fordragon with her, while Jaina’s family continues to look after Dereck.

Anduin was thrilled. He missed his aunt terribly, and most of all, he would welcome the chance to have two friends at his side now that he’s banished the abrupt headache that was Black Prince Wrathion from his kingdom. He and Jaina would instead tell quiet stories together in the library like they used to, tea in their hands and a hearth’s fire lighting up their eyes in the dark of a still, quiet night. Anduin would certainly catch up with Taelia as well; they had much in common, two nobles with high expectations who had lost their fathers to a terrible fate, and the woman loved to pressure him into sparring with her whenever they saw each other-- to which she always came out victorious.

Yes, Anduin would be looking forward to this for days. Part of him even hopes to see Valeera again, though none of her rogues had reported her capture nor her return, so he could only assume-- and hope-- she still fared well. All the ideas swimming together at once make him feel giddy, of which he quickly blames the rest of the coffee he downs in a swig.

It sparks him into wistful planning, as if he can only chase the high of his optimism for so long before his energy wanes again. Those children who warned him of the birds deserved a nice letter. Some gold? Maybe a new horse, or he could commission medals for them. Though it wouldn’t be long before a pack of guards came to escort Anduin to his next duty, and he had no choice but to put the projects on the back burner.

Soon, he thought, with a caffeinated spring to his step. Soon, he can finally get back on track to doing something that felt meaningful to him.

* * *

Black, leathery wings swoop low from the canopies of one grand tree to the next. Wrathion was smart enough not to fly across forest in broad daylight, but he had yet to earn the cover of night. The grand mountains that cradled Elwynn’s borders would still soon hide the sun from another short autumn day, and the dragon was determined to meet King Anduin before the man retired for bed.

He hates it though. Hates it hates it HATES it, knowing he has to grovel at the king’s feet. It is not that threat Anduin made that disturbs him, but the fact Wrathion was to forfeit his pride if he had even the smallest chance to convince King Anduin to aid him.

And truth be told? He did not even truly _need _a favor. He could simply hide in the shadows, wait until nightfall, and pluck his needed prize with no one the wiser. King Anduin could go the rest of his life without Wrathion in it, and the dragon would be content doing the same.

But gods above, nothing Wrathion did could shake that prickling, unpleasant feeling of exile he carried with him from Blade’s Edge. Those dragons were his kin, his actual blood, and they despised him for the blood he had on his hands. Realizing that King Anduin felt the same way was an epiphany Wrathion didn’t care to have at all, but there it was, and it somehow makes him feel thrice as restless.

Probably because they were once friends. And then Wrathion had betrayed Anduin, seized the opportunities Kairoz’s foolishness had left like a trail of breadcrumbs, and left himself with no allies to assure him his achievements would change the world for the better.

He sniffs indignantly at the tone of pity that creeps into his thoughts. Asinine. He does not need pity. He needs a second chance for Anduin to see how _important_ his work is, and how his peace-loving human-self could have the once in a lifetime chance to be a part of _history. _With newfound resolve, Wrathion breaks the cover of his treeline to swoop toward the daunting rise of Stormwind Keep.

It belatedly becomes obvious that he did not, exactly, know where King Anduin would be this time of day. In fact, Wrathion did not even know which side of the castle his bedchamber was. He had never been to Stormwind at all up until a few days ago, and the fact his second appearance was to be made under such revolting circumstances doesn’t bide well with his frustrations.

Luckily, he brought help. As new to the kingdom as Wrathion was, he knows without a doubt that there are sentries and gryphon riders on constant vigilance. Perching behind a momentarily-vacant watchtower, he peels his eyes for sign of his bodyguards.

A twinge of blood magic tapped into his mind, and he swung his head in the direction it prodded him toward. He spies the familiar form of Right wave from near the canals. Another magical tap, and he sees Left across the courtyard and at the base of another watchtower.

Excellent. He and King Anduin could at least agree on one thing: It would not be wise for Wrathion’s appearance to be known to the world quite yet, and being captured without the king present to do crowd control would certainly spell disaster for him.

It takes a handful of minutes for Wrathion to feel another signal. His rogues were monitoring the gryphon routes, until the three of them have the timing memorized well enough to spur the dragon into a short flight. He glides from one tower to the next, waits, then moves again. The setting sun was making it easier to blend his dark form with the elongated shadows of the day’s dying light.

At last, he makes it to the keep walls proper, where his dragon form crouches low to stay out of sight of patrols or windows. This part was trickier; Wrathion had dismantled the mental links between himself and his agents some time ago when he had disappeared. Only a few loyal Blacktalons remained, including Left and Right. The new blood magic bestowed upon them could not always communicate verbal thought, but instead the _impression_ of thought, like feelings of panic or approval.

It was a terribly flawed system, but alas, Wrathion no longer had a throng of adventurers eager to do his grocery shopping of magical items for him. So now he was left with a guessing game, jumping or flying from one section of the keep to the next, as his bodyguards watch from below to give him vague direction.

He tries the tallest tower first. Left prods at his mind that he is incorrect. Next, his talons cling to the stone to scurry his way down and to another broad section of the building facing the mountains. He is deterred from that one, too.

The game starts to get irritating, and Wrathion knows he is radiating his displeasure strong enough for a wordless scolding from Right. The sun has nearly set over the ocean waters, bathing him in complete darkness by the time something rings of approval in his mind. He sees broken windows and many boards barring them: King Anduin’s room. Yes, he remembers well what he was told of his unsavory birds breaking into the man’s chambers. He only needs to find the small weakness Left and Right had infiltrated last night, and he can get this over with…

But something like a series of frantic, mental pokes start to assault Wrathion just as he’s eased his snout under a loose board. He growls out loud, and conveys the same annoyance back to his bodyguards. But they continue to fuss for his attention. Some sort of force from Left persuades him into craning his neck toward the ground below.

He may have found the king’s chambers, but King Anduin himself was not within it. Instead, the man was far below him in the gardens, holding what Wrathion recognizes in complete surprise to be Shalamayne in his hands. Of course he knew nobody but Anduin would be the one to inherit the blade upon Varian’s death. He was merely flabbergast to see the king hold it without buckling under its weight. Anduin used to be a _twig_.

Fortunately, the man also appears to be sparring alone with a dummy made of straw. As much as Wrathion wants to watch long enough to see the sword finally get the most of the king and make him fall on his ass, time was running out. As soon as there was no more daylight for Anduin to practice by, he would surely disappear back into the keep. And Wrathion was not intent to push his luck waltzing into the throne room a second time. With no other warning from Left and Right that there were guards about, he jumps from the king’s banister, and makes his silent landing among the hedges far too thick for Anduin to take notice.

He would have to approach this carefully. The rogues would probably take care of any alarm the human might sound, but there was a delicacy to his proposition, and Anduin was still swinging that stupidly large sword at that defenseless militia dummy, and if Wrathion took one wrong step and _whoosh_, he lost a horn--

A branch snaps under his paw. He had intended to shift into his human form, to make the meeting a formal one, but that crunching sound was as loud as a gunshot in Wrathion’s ears.

Anduin had heard it too. His face snaps over his shoulders with Shalamayne wedged into his inanimate opponent, and Wrathion doesn’t think before he’s stepping out of the shrubs when he sees the blade get pulled free.

“Wait!” Wrathion squawks. “Wait, wait, do not _STAB_ me!”

To his credit, Anduin does wait. Or is shocked into place. “Wrathion?” he breathes dumbly. And then thinks much better of it. “_Wrathion._ _GUARDS--_”

But Wrathion is also a quick thinker, if less deftly so. Before the first letter of Anduin’s rallying cry even leaves his mouth, there is a long, thick dragon tail wrapping around his shoulders and the lower half of his face.

The king looks shocked, and then absolutely _affronted_. Shalamayne is dropped so that the king’s gauntlet hands can scramble for purchase on Wrathion’s tail, but the dragon’s hold is steadfast. Wonderful. This is definitely how he wanted to start this whole ‘second chance’ thing.

“Stop it!” Wrathion hisses, stretching his long neck to stare down at Anduin eye-to-eye. “Stop it, I am not here to harm you! But I see you _do_ very much intend to do me harm by the blade of your guards, and I simply will not have it. Stop squirming.”

To his credit, Anduin does stop trying to break free, the short-lived panic on his face now replaced by how blatantly _livid_ he was. He does not try to speak under the sure-muffle of Wrathion’s scales. He only stares at the dragon, furious and expectant.

It was still better than Anduin trying to cut him to pieces. Wrathion takes a step back, further into the protective shadows of the garden’s privacy wall. Once he’s confirmed the king has no choice but to follow, they continue walking backwards until they were completed concealed away from the keep’s candle-lit windows. Wrathion’s reptilian eyes regard his captor, squinting at the unfriendly face fuming back at him. “Now then. I am going to uncover your mouth so that we may speak, but you will not call for your guards. Understood?”

Anduin’s brows lay flat. He was not appreciative of being grappled _or_ being negotiated with. But he soon nods.

Cautiously, Wrathion untwines the end of his tail from across the human’s chin. And Anduin makes the most of it. “_G__UAR__DS__-_”

_SLAP._ The king is silenced again. This time, it was Wrathion fuming, while the other only radiates sudden and total contentment.

“Again,” the dragon hisses, his neck stretching to the point where their brows almost lay flat against one another. Wrathion’s large red eyes burn with fury, but Anduin merely stares unflinching back at them. “We are going to try this _again_.”

He unfurls the end of his tail again, slowly.

And then: “_GUAR--_”

“No!” Another slap of his tail falling back into place, this time making Anduin stumble and glare thereafter. “We! Are! Not! Shouting! We are having a _civil_ conversation, King Anduin Wrynn, or Light so help me I _will_ fly to the mountains just to drop you on your soft little skull! I mean it!”

Again, Anduin is only left with nothing more than the ability to stare back at him. Wrathion growls something low in his throat when he swears he sees _amusement_ on the human’s face. The audacity! He was taunting him!

The growl continues, eventually deterring into a sound of thoughtful frustration. Wrathion sighs harshly. “Alright: I should not be here. You made it very clear I was not welcomed here, and believe me, I would like nothing more than to take my leave. But believe me King Anduin, despite what this looks like, I only came to _talk_.”

At first, Anduin’s brows were raised over tired, expectant eyes that agreed that yes, Wrathion should not, in fact, be here at all. The dragon’s following insistence that he was here for conversation then gets another look of annoyance; he either didn’t believe Wrathion, or was not willing to give him the time of day.

Wrathion thought this fair of him again, and continues. “If you force my hand with all your yelling, however, I will not hesitate to take us far away from this place so that we may be _understanding_ about this. I would not like to do this, however, because I pointedly came to Stormwind for your aid, and leaving the city would just seem counterproductive.”

Silence, as the two stare at each other. Wrathion’s red eyes bathe the human’s face in a glow that illuminates the dark circles on Anduin’s skin. At last, hands start to work on the dragon’s tail again, less frenzied but still determined to make Wrathion release him. Wrathion hesitates, but lets his tail unfurl from the king’s shoulders completely. He steps back to give Anduin space when the only thing the human does is rub his jaw free of the imprints his scales left behind.

Maybe Wrathion’s luck was coming through, or he had simply worn down the king’s patience. Either way, Anduin does not shout for his men this time. “I’m listening,” he says. “What do you want?”

A cloud of smoke, and Wrathion shifts into his human form. “It is about my research-- of which I know you do not approve of,” he adds when Anduin’s face hardens, “-- but it is dear to me. I need only one last item before I can test my potions on the fossil.”

“An item,” Anduin says back. He suddenly looks very, very wary. “If this is about blood--”

“No!” Wrathion’s voice raises an octave, and then he clears his throat. “No. Well-- ah, no. It is not something I need from you, personally, King Anduin. Instead, I am here… to ask your permission for it.”

Oh no. This was the part Wrathion had been dreading all day. His formalities to the king had been easier when he was making a boisterous show of himself, but now he was to win King Anduin’s trust, and to win King Anduin’s trust means all but prostrating himself before him.

He _sighs_. “I come asking for your permission-- and your help-- in removing a piece from my Aunt Onyxia’s skull, so that I ensure I do not bring the egg to harm. Nothing more.”

The bow he gives is held for much longer than is comfortable for Wrathion’s spine. When he looks up, he is not at all surprised to find Anduin’s tired face regarding his own with mild surprise. His arms were folded over the breastplate on his chest, and the dragon knows he is trying to process whatever in the hell Wrathion needs a dead relative’s bones _for_. But Sabellian would never provide any remains of his children, and Wrathion had ensured long ago that the bodies of the corrupted dragons he had slain were burned to nothingness.

Anduin starts to speak slowly, “You want a piece of Onyxia’s head.”

“Yes,” Wrathion replies. He straightens himself and his fine coat. “And before you think otherwise, I _am_ perfectly capable of just stealing a spike or a tooth without your or your people ever knowing.

“… but,” he reluctantly continues, “this research is important to me. It can change the world, should I succeed. And I suppose, somewhere, I owe you...” He starts to roll his wrist in the air to distract himself from Anduin’s hard eyes. “... more-- _honest_ methods. Because you have every reason to think what I did in Kun-lai was wrong. But I can show you, King Anduin. There is a new hope for Azeroth-- for my people-- should my final methods succeed.”

Wrathion feels like he was speaking all with the same meager breath. He takes in another, deep and slow, to watch the unchanging expression on the human’s face.

Though the rest of Anduin had changed so much. The dragon remembers a bright-eyed teenager that stared in wonder at every new aspect of life he saw. But between then and now, King Anduin Llane Wrynn had become an unflinching figurehead for his Alliance, and Wrathion can only just barely recall the time he had teased at the boy for being too soft for Stormwind’s throne. Something tells him he had been sorely mistaken.

Wrathion’s blood freezes as he watches Anduin cross the gardens and retrieve his sword from the ground. But instead of a death sentence, the king says, “Very well. You may take a _tooth_ from Onyxia’s head. And then you will leave.”

The dragon immediately shakes off his scare and preens. “Splendid. But I would like you to accompany me.”

Anduin stops. He frowns deeply. “Why?”

“Because!” Now safe in complete darkness, Wrathion removes himself from the shrubbery to join at the king’s side out in the open. “By granting me this final reagent, no one other than yourself deserves to be a part of this endeavor. Come with me to the city gates, and return to Karazhan with me to watch us reawaken my forgotten sibling.”

Perhaps he was asking too much. Anduin had grown furious with him in Wrathion’s lab at the sight of the Vision of Time, and it would be unwise to evoke him again. Though Anduin’s reply is not what he expects it to be. “I’m tired, Wrathion. I haven’t slept since you took me to your lair _last_ night.”

Wrathion scoffs. “You were just out here swinging a sword. You can’t be that exhausted.”

Anduin glares at him. “I’m expected to practice. And I haven’t had dinner.”

“There is food in Karazhan! King Anduin, please.”

He was growing exasperated, which was blatantly mutual. It seems like this negotiation would not work after all, and Wrathion’s infiltration had been for nothing.

But in the darkness, the dragon sees something change. Anduin looks… thoughtful, perching one hand over the other over the end hilt of Shalamayne. He stands like a king, organizing a strategy in his mind. A compromise.

“How about this,” Anduin says. “I will not allow my absence to be noticed so early in the evening. I will have dinner, and _then_ I will join you when my advisors expect me to sleep.”

Wrathion could not hide the pleasant surprise from his features. Anduin’s reasoning was actually… well, reasonable to him. “I see. Very well. I will… Where should I wait for you?”

Anduin thinks. “Outside the dining hall. I often take my meals alone, but the hall is usually empty by night. You should not have to wait long.”

“Excellent.” Wrathion’s face splits into a pointy grin. “I will see you then.”

* * *

Oh, Anduin usually ate alone alright. But today, to the surprise and then delight of the noblefolk gathered at the long banquet table, he would be joining them for some pleasant evening company. It was not so much the people that chased Anduin away from the dining hall, but the fact he was to sit at the head of the table as king, as his father had. The chair he had sat as a prince at Varian’s side was left empty. It was the smallest comfort he could take in this room.

That, and of course, the way Anduin could make out the vaguest shape of Wrathion’s angry, draconic face glaring hellfire at him from one of the vaulted windows. The glass was fogging from his snout pressed against it.

Anduin raises his mug in the dragon’s direction, and many of the nobles follow suit as if it were merely a small toast. He and Wrathion would know better. The human hides well the smile on his lips behind a drink, as the faraway window is completely concealed by the fog of deep, angry dragon breaths.

The evening drags on with delicious food and banter the likes of which Anduin hadn’t indulged in in years. It was always a pleasant experience, and he did not despise it in any way. Aside from the issue of missing his father, he was simply too tired to expend this kind of energy every single night of his life. But as Anduin dismisses himself at last from his people’s company, he leaves the hall feeling the most satisfied with himself he’s been in ages.

Seeing Wrathion’s face only makes it more so. As Anduin strides leisurely down the corridor, his hands behind his back and his eyes facing forward, his peripheral vision delights in seeing the dragon stalk him along the windows from the gardens, like a panther pacing in its cage. His crimson eyes burn furiously at the king through the glass panes. It makes Anduin smile without so much as a glance in his direction as they both continue their strides.

It takes Anduin a few minutes to wait for a patrol of guardsman to pass before he rounds one final corner, then finds himself outdoors again. Wrathion waits for him, sat on his haunches with that same detesting glare glowing in the shadows. “Childish,” he hisses.

Anduin shrugs one shoulder. Back in Wrathion’s presence, it was easy to feel less than thrilled about their undertaking again, and he turns his face stony. “Let’s be quick about this.”

The dragon huffs, but unfolds his wings. Anduin realizes with bitter dismay that he would be flying with Wrathion one way or another. “Climb aboard then, King Anduin, lest you rather I carry you in my talons.”

Needless to say thatAnduin did not prefer that method at all.

When they had first met in Pandaria, Wrathion was but a whelpling with large, devious eyes and a chattering mouth. His artificial construction assured his mind and his magic would mature quickly, and his draconic body seemed to also be following suit when they saw each other again in Kun-lai. Wrathion had been about the size of a Gilnean bloodhound then, but today, he was easily the size a young riding gryphon.

Although when they first took off from the ground with Anduin on his back, Wrathion squawked and demanded he drop off Anduin to his room so the man could remove his ridiculously heavy armor. The king wouldn’t admit that he had complied out of relief; it was refreshing to change into real clothing, and their flight to Stormwind’s city gates proved much smoother.

Left and Right were already gone; Wrathion mentions having needed them to find Anduin in the keep, but it was presently in the king’s hands to assure everything went smoothly should their quest be discovered. They land in the small space of the canals between bridge and mountain stone.

Above them, where she’s sat for well over ten years now, was the head of Onyxia, the dragon who had manipulated Varian and Anduin Wrynn into ruling the kingdom by her own hand when the prince was just a boy. Time and weather had worn away any trace of flesh from her skull, leaving only an open maw of teeth and empty eye sockets. He couldn’t bear to remove it, no matter how much he usually didn’t care for hanging dead things on his walls. It was to be a reminder of Stormwind’s liberation, and the day Varian Wrynn-- barely one whole of two halves-- finally returned home to him.

The narrow drainage they stand in soaks Anduin’s boots around his ankles, and he can tell by the shifting water that the dragon was just as uncomfortable chilling his paws in it. There were patrols about that they watch for what feels like a silent eternity. Once the last of them cover their grounds and disappear through the gates, Wrathion springs into action.

“Watch my back,” he says, quiet and excited.

The sight of Wrathion taking flight and landing in Onyxia’s giant, hanging jaw makes Anduin grimace. He still remembers well the day those teeth tried to close around him. Even for as large as Wrathion had grown, he still looks so incredibly small in comparison to the size of his aunt’s empty skull; like a fly on a sleeping lion’s face.

The king sweeps his eyes over the bridge before focusing on Wrathion again. The idea that he was helping the dragon create life through the means of some mad, manipulating scientist still wouldn’t settle kindly in Anduin. Even worse, Anduin fears what would happen if Wrathion _did_ succeed, and the hatched whelp possessed Deathwing’s madness. Would he kill it? Experiment on it?

He doesn’t have time to linger further before Anduin blanches at the sight of Onyxia’s skull swaying ever so slightly. Wrathion had his talons around one of the smaller teeth in the back of her mouth, struggling to pull it loose. He changes into his human form and wiggles it with all his might, emanating grunts and swears from the stubborn ordeal.

Around one of the gate’s mighty pillars, Anduin can see the approach of torchlight. It was slow, at the designated pace of a returning patrol, but he still fears the worst from the shifting dragon head.

He’s just about to swing over the canal when he hears the rattle of chains overhead. Onyxia’s skull gives one last tremble before Wrathion holds his prize above his head, no doubt giving Anduin a victorious grin the human cannot see in the dark. The king beckons him quickly back to the ground with an impatient gesture.

The same moment he feels the heavy mass of a dragon land silently beside him, Anduin watches the patrols whirl their torches toward the skull hanging from the tower. Wrathion’s leap from it had rattled the chains once more; it continues to sway, enough that Anduin fears in his paranoia it will loosen and crush the men underneath of it, and he breaks out into a cold sweat.

The guards squint and raise their torches higher. The swaying of Onyxia’s head slows, and then… “The wind, maybe?” the king hears one whisper.

“Nah. Probably a vulture pickin’ at it.”

“Wasn’t there something about giant birds a few days ago?”

"Mm.”

He hears Wrathion’s tongue cluck beside him. Anduin grits his teeth. “Well. Your men sure are perceptive, aren’t they? Here, let us get going.”

The king agrees without a word. They fly together across the city’s bridge and enormous gates into the forest below. The moon was not even waxing, giving them the blackest night they could hope for, if also the coldest. It did not matter to Anduin. He would indulge Wrathion one last time, see whether or not the dragon’s ambition succeeds or fails, then make certain they never cross paths without a hundred armed Alliance soliders between them again. The more Wrathion’s unnecessary loops in the air churn his stomach, the more the king finds himself meditating on selling his whereabouts to the Horde for a fat sack of gold.

Left and Right greet them inside Karazhan with bows and nods, only straying their eyes to the item Wrathion held now in his human hand: The tooth of the black dragon Onyxia, supposed to be a small thing compared to the rest, but large enough that Wrathion could barely wrap his fingers around it. When the dragon disappears into his laboratory space, the three of them are beckoned to follow. The egg was no longer concealed. It still sat upon its pillow, the curtain pushed aside to expose it to the air of brews being bubbled to life over their flames.

“Now,” Anduin hears Wrathion say. “Let’s see...”

A potion is pulled off a shelf and into view; the style of its flask no different than the vials he seems to keep on-hand. What catches Anduin’s eye is a potion of a much different style, both in the glass containing it and the blackness the light could not penetrate inside.

Wrathion pulls the vial out as well, but did not use it yet. “Be warned,” he says, looking over his shoulder at Anduin and his rogues, “that no matter the results, this mixtures is to catch its subject aflame. But as the egg and I are black dragons, we are immune to such things-- or at least most of them. Should the Onyxia’s bone produce white smoke, it means the tooth is disintegrating, and will destroy the fossil. Black smoke, and the elixir should be safe, only stripping the stone away and leaving the egg intact. And then… Well: We will just have to see.”

Anduin understands now: The tooth was to act as a control- black dragon DNA that could be tested on without having to risk injury to the fossil or Wrathion himself. He watches the dragon split Onyxia’s age-worn tooth in half, then again. Four pieces to test with, at first. The vial he takes again in his hands is also poured into three other separate flasks.

Where Left and Right were usually bound to stand somewhere out the way, Anduin could feel them at his back, holding their breath just as the king unhappily found himself doing. He could not help it: The first vial, just as it was, is tilted to drip steadily over the first broken piece of bone.

All four of them watch the immediate reaction: A sizzling followed by Wrathion’s soft grumble. The tooth starts to collapse and crumble. The smoke was white. Anduin tries not to breathe it in.

The black liquid vial he noticed before is taken in Wrathion’s hand. A nearby mess of notes is peered over carefully, and with blatant hesitation, the dragon adds just a few drops of the dark substance to one of the split vials. The potion is then easily consumed by those few drops; the concoction turns black as if being churned rapidly by an invisible mixing rod. Even worse, gripping at Anduin’s heart at the sight of it, he sees what can only be the golden specks of Bronze sand. Just as quickly as the inky liquid had overcome the potion’s color, the sands were fighting back, forming out of nothing and growing like a tidal wave to overcome the intrusion.

Wrathion had used the Vision of Time somewhere in the potion’s creation. How? It was only a machine that could show moving pictures of the past, and-- and somehow, with Kairoz and Draenor--

The sands and the black liquid go still in the flask. Wrathion was watching them too, giving the vial a little shake and hum of approval when the two contrasting colors merely stay in place, as if embraced in liquid form.

Only a small portion is dripped over the next piece of the tooth. The same sizzling sound ensues, yet there is something different about it. It does not produce smoke, but steam. Anduin sees Wrathion frown. The dragon pours a little more.

The steam grows higher, then thicker-- then gray. Then black.

Then Anduin sees red. Not the red of his own anger-- not this time-- but physical red; the seam of cracks Wrathion had created by breaking the bone apart start to slowly gather in an opaque shape at the tooth’s root. The king realizes in stunned silence that it was _blood_. The tooth was bleeding. The potion had stripped the tooth of its old, brittle enamel, and somehow brought to life the blood that should have dried up and evaporated years ago with Onyxia’s skull abandoned to the elements.

The crimson matter pours in a trickle across the surface of the lab desk. Slowly, the flow ceases and dries up. The only sign that Onyxia’s bone had bled was the smallest stain it leaves in the wood.

Left and Right look at their charge. Anduin finally lifts his eyes from the desk to do the same.

The dragon’s thoughts were going a thousand miles a minute. Anduin could see it on the man’s faraway face. He tries the concoction one more time on a spare piece of tooth, this time adding more of the black brew to his originally prepared concoction. The results are very much the same. This time however, the tooth’s regenerated blood canal bleeds for much, much longer.

“My lord,” Right says. There’s a tentative hand reaching in his direction.

But Wrathion only turns at the waist and regards her calmly-- calm in every way but the way his mouth splits into a startling grin. His voice is but a breath. "Shall we?”


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first part of the chronomatic experiment has reached its conclusion, but Anduin has his misgivings on how Wrathion plans to proceed further.

Sabellian’s work did not disappoint. In fact, it did exactly as Wrathion had prayed it would do. But he has to be careful now; the elder dragon’s elixir was still to be of use to him after the egg was free. He could not use it all on reversing the fossil. He was immensely impressed with how much of a difference a few drops could make.

Those same droplets gave Wrathion one last task in measuring how much Sabellian’s concoction would be needed to add to the remaining bulk of the reversal potion. As he takes measurements and scribbles the math on a piece of parchment, he can hear the sound of Anduin’s uneven footsteps crossing the floor behind him to where the egg sat in wait.

The king was silent since their return, which in truth was a nice and welcomed change. Wrathion wonders smugly to himself how much his research impressed the human _now_. Ah. But he could not gloat yet. If this experiment did not work after all, then there would certainly be nothing left for him in this world he called his own, his duty.

The final potion was soon made. The Bronze’s sands fight with the Black essence once more before stilling in harmony. Wrathion carries the potion delicately by its neck and bottom, and his rogues give him space.

Anduin does not move or look at him right away. When he does, it is with an expression the dragon cannot read. “Do you think it will work?”

As much as Wrathion longs to preen, there is no resisting the frown that sets on his face. “According to what I have researched and what I have seen… it must. Move aside, please.”

Anduin does. He stands several paces behind Wrathion, as do Left and Right at his other side. Neither one of them offer any other word.

The dragon lets out a long breath- one that would shake had it not been silent. He takes one step closer to the large stone, the prison of his ancient and unhatched sibling lying beneath layer and layer of neglected years. Tonight, Wrathion would not take his family’s life, but give it, in hopes that the black dragonflight can be redeemed in the eyes of all whose eyes fell on his legacy.

All in the room go still as Wrathion upends the potion over it.

Thick curling smoke immediately fills the room. King Anduin and the rogues immediately step away and shield their faces, but the dragon does not flinch. He merely squints, forcing his draconic gaze to pierce through the burning veil so that he may watch the transformation.

It was just like with Onyxia’s bones: The rock starts to fade away, whether by melting or splintering into broken pieces that clatter across the floor. At first, all Wrathion sees is the disappearing stone, encasing nothing, and his heart clenches in dismay. Could he have been wrong? Did he destroy the egg after all? He could not forgive himself if it were true. Not only to lose the hatchling, but to see his work of the past four years, crumble to nothing in his hands--

It soon catches his eye when the smoke starts to thin ever so slightly: A protruding spike, colored like amber. Then another. More appear, across the base of something dark and dense. Wrathion had not seen one in some time, but he remembers well what a black dragon’s egg looked like when he had marched upon Blackrock and destroyed every corrupted nest inside it.

The egg sits in the empty shell of the fossil that now cradles it like a primitive bassinet. Its shell was bumpy, almost appearing to be covered in scales of its own, only to be further protected by the uninviting spikes of orange across its surface. And it was there. It was whole. But was it _alive?_

It takes several minutes for the stone to disintegrate completely, but Wrathion suspects it does not matter if he moves it. He could already see the entirety of the egg before the last of the barrier was stripped from it, urging him to take the thing in his hands to lift it free. He does so gingerly.

As smaller as the egg was compared to its fossilized state, it was still quite large, and Wrathion needed both hands like he did when carrying the Vision. But the moment his hands touch its surface, he cannot help the startled noise that escapes him.

Or the laugh, sudden and frightening and jubilant. “It is warm,” he says, gasps. “The egg-- I did it. It _worked_.”

He almost forgets he is not alone in the room, nearly startling again when Right is the first to brave appearing at the dragon’s side. Her eyes are as wide as his own; even Left appears at a loss for words, so scarcely as they already come. But Wrathion could feel it: His kin stirred beyond the dense shell in his hands. It was but a babe, still too young in its development to reach out to him with its magic. Wrathion’s fingers shake with his revelation, though his arms did not. He was glad. He did it. He was _victorious._

The smoke clears. Wrathion looks up from the stare he did not realize he was so intently holding at his prize, and finds Anduin already staring back at him. There was no celebration on the human’s face. Only shock. Yes, Wrathion had certainly achieved the impossible today, but he knew there was something more on Anduin’s tongue.

He did not want to depart from the egg so soon, but he had a feeling he wasn’t going to get his congratulations from King Anduin if they did not have words. That, and Wrathion had no real idea when the thing would actually hatch. One of his hands comes briefly away from the egg to make a gesture at his bodyguards. They nod, and Wrathion and Anduin wait as another, cleaner resting place is prepared for the egg to sit on.

“Keep your eye on it,” the dragon commands his rogues. “I will be back shortly.”

He tears his gaze away from the egg to settle back on Anduin. The man is already taking to his side as Wrathion asks, “Shall we?”, and they exit the parlor into the ruined hallways beyond.

In the moment of their departure, Wrathion’s concerns for Anduin’s lectures or approvals were far from his mind. He was giddy with his success, his thoughts instead racing with playing the night’s events over and over in them. The potion had worked, and not only that, he felt the life of his ancient kin with his own hands. What would it be like, he wondered. Would there be complications to being awakened in an entirely different timeline? Would it be male or female? What kind of magic would it possess?

Would it be corrupted?

His pondering slowly trails as his and Anduin's steps come to a stop. A staircase stood to one side, but collapsed and no longer able to reach its destination above. Wrathion watches Anduin study it, or pretend to. Just like him, the king’s mind was occupied with what he had just witnessed.

"Wrathion," he says quietly. His voice is even, and Wrathion still cannot read him. "... I did not think that would work."

Hesitant at first, then quickly happier; Wrathion smiles at him. "See? I told you my research was sound, and not so much as a scratch on the thing..."

His smile slowly fades. The king's blue eyes were fixated on him. Tired. They were so tired and foreign, and Wrathion could now read the disgust in them plainly. "What was in that elixir, Wrathion? It was bronze dragon magic, wasn't it."

The magic from the Vision of Time. Wrathion did not need to answer Anduin out loud; the king had already drawn his conclusion when he saw the chem-magical reaction take place. He continues to stare unhappily at Wrathion. "What about your alchemy? Or that strange dark potion?"

That, Wrathion does not find so easy to answer. He bristles at the king. "It is all draconic magic, King Anduin. A dragon solution to a dragon problem."

"Dragon magic you _stole_," Anduin snaps. "Dragon magic you took advantage of in the wake of death, after everything that's happened-"

"This again!" Wrathion tosses his hands in the air. "You've made yourself perfectly _clear,_ your _Majesty_, I know well the fruits of my labors are _bitter_. But you saw for yourself what these things just accomplished! The preservation process as been reversed and destroyed! A black dragon waits in that egg, and if everything proceeds as well as it has thus far, it will be Azeroth's future."

Anduin’s fists clench then unclench at his sides. "Where did the egg come from?"

Ah. Sharp fangs bite the twist of Wrathion’s tongue. The weigh of the pros and cons of his answering is brief, unneeded.

The dragon straightens himself to fold his hands behind his back. "Highmountain," he says. "After the uncorrupted existence of Ebyssian became known across the Broken Isles, I did not hesitate to infiltrate the cavern where his own egg escaped Deathwing's slaughter.”

Wrathion sees Anduin’s eyes widen ever so slightly. When no more words from the king are forthcoming, the dragon continues. “Thousands of years ago, Neltharion had many mates and many nests in Highmountain, most of which he destroyed in his mad conquest. Not only were these dragons destroyed by his fire, but some by the forces of his power as Earthwarder. Some parts of the mountain itself were destroyed. Cave-ins, landslides…

“One such nest was wiped out by these earthen methods. Crushed beneath stone or swept away by the debris. My rogues and I found the egg fragments and bones preserved in the stone. But among the remains was _one_ fossil that was unscathed. It had not cracked, but been buried.”

And that fossil was no more. It lives and breathes beneath a shell-- the proper shell of a dragon waiting to be hatched. Wrathion can feel his excitement returning to him, only to be staved off by Anduin’s continued stare of disapproval. It infuriates Wrathion to no end, and he snaps, “What can you _still possibly have_ against this operation?” His hands spread out on either side of him. “Is it wrong for me to want to save my people? Have my experiments perhaps stooped me so _low_ to the likes of the Reds who created me? Hm? Or do you want to argue in circles about Pandaria again?”

“I do not,” Anduin snaps back. He stands from the sit he had taken on the bottom stair. “I only want to make _very clear_ what my problem with you since Pandaria _is_, Wrathion. You were in Highmountain-- presumably during a time the Legion was running rampant through the land-- Used your _secret dragon magic_ you refuse to tell me a damn thing about, and then showed me your secret lair in Medivh’s old stronghold, under Stormwind’s nose, this entire time. My grievances against your ‘operation’ is that I’m still waiting for the part where I’m supposed to trust you.”

The dragon scowls. He takes a few marching steps forward that Anduin doesn’t shy away from, jabbing a claw into the human’s chest. “I said nothing about doing this to earn your precious _trust_. And I do not know what you expect to accomplish by bringing up the Bronze and the Legion every other minute we are together!”

Anduin tries to move aside Wrathion’s finger with the back of his hand, but the dragon only prods at him again. Anduin sighs exasperatedly. “You know why I bring it up, Wrathion.”

“No, I do not. _Enlighten_ me.”

This time, Anduin’s backhand toward the offending poke is more forceful, but Wrathion merely replaces it with his other hand. The game of annoying pokes and last-words is so familiar to their time as boys that he is almost shocked to find Anduin pushing him away, instead of smothering his face with a pillow that, Wrathion vaguely reminds himself, does not actually exist in Kazarzhan’s dusty halls. “I bring it up because you made it _perfectly clear _that the Legion was your mortal enemy. From day one, Wrathion, the day I met you, you were thrusting gems in champion’s hands and demanding Horde and Alliance general heads on a platter. Did you just sit back and watch the world burn while you were digging your hands in the mud looking for bones?”

Wrathion takes a deep breath through his nose. It puffs our his chest and flares his nostrils, his gaze burning into Anduin’s. “And so you blame me for not stopping the Legion, single-handedly? Is that it?”

“Why not?” Anduin sneers back. “You have loyal followers by the zounds, don’t you?”

“And you have a whole Alliance at your command. Tell me, then, how did that fare for Teldrassil?”

In any other world, it would have been a low blow. Wrathion sees the king’s eyes widen, then soon look away. But Wrathion had made himself vulnerable in that tavern years ago, and dangling Azeroth’s destruction over his head was not something he was about to stand for. He almost expects Anduin to punch him again, surprised when no words or acts of malice come.

He sighs. “Do you remember, King Anduin, when I told you I no longer had a preference for my title as Prince?”

Anduin had sat back on that bottom stair during their silence. The dragon waits until he meets his eye again, a tiredness in their blue that outweighs the anger the king’s bared thus far. He still looks so different than the bright, pillowing-throwing teenager Wrathion remembers.

“It is because I have no kingdom to rule over,” Wrathion decides to continue. “Of course, I never had a physical kingdom in the first place-- not like yours. As a son of Deathwing, my land was all of Azeroth, and I had usurped her from my father’s reign. It did not matter that I had no family. My champions, my Blacktalons… they are all I needed.”

Some of Anduin’s previous aggravation returns when the dragon unceremoniously plops himself in a sit next to him. He sprawls himself out, feet stretched to the floor and his turbaned head flopped back on the step above the one they both sat on. Wrathion lounges, dramatically, like a noblewoman on the verge of a fainting spell. His sigh only matches in dramatics, ignoring Anduin’s foot prodding at his own for some personal space from his side of the stairwell. “But my champions are gone, you see. I went into hiding to ensure that the egg would not be compromised. I have only a handful of Blacktalons. Five, including Left and Right, in fact, on this continent. Once I disappeared, the curiosity of my whereabouts trickled with each new disaster on the rise.

“So.” Wrathion claps his hands together, once, then lets them droop over the rotting wood like a sad marionette. “The Black Prince is no more. Not until I can prove myself to be a worthy adversary of the world I love so dear… I will bring the black dragonflight to protect her better than I could alone.”

There it was: It was but a scratch of the surface of the secrets Wrathion kept dear to him, but all the same, it was a secret he expects Anduin to have discovered sooner or later. How else would the SI:7 be able to explain the lack of the dragon’s activity over the years? There were simply no Blacktalons skulking about for them to find-- or if there were, they served another trinket-producing figurehead now. Wrathion left no footprints. He would not keep two hundred-something contracts to risk them leaving their own, either.

It was starting to get quiet for far longer than he cared for. Wrathion rolls his head to one side, peeking at the king who was only staring back at him. He looks… taken aback, Wrathion can discern, if only just slightly. Anduin had become a creature determined to harden his heart to anything the dragon had to say to him. Yet even now, he appears surprised about Wrathion’s spun tale of disbanded loyalties.

Though he still gives one last kick to the dragon’s foot. Wrathion complies this time, clicking his heels together as he remains in his stairwell sprawl. Anduin slowly starts to ask, “Then what happens with the egg now?”

Wrathion grunts. “Obviously, it needs to hatch. I will admit, Ebyssian’s condition worries me: Did you know he is uncorrupted, but only by residing in Highmountain? There is a protective force in that land, and with the egg removed from it… I do not know if its magic will linger, or if the Old Golds will penetrate it in this new timeline. I cannot know while it is still incubating.”

Anduin frowns. His bleeding heart was showing. “What if it is corrupted? You said you were going to bring back your flight with this one egg. But what if…?”

Another sigh. Wrathion shakes his head. “I will not destroy it. But with what I have discussed with Ebyssian, and the fact the egg was created in a time before Neltharion’s betrayal, there should be-- there _is_\-- a very good chance that the chronomancy used to bring it to our world will ensure its mind being unharmed. As if it it has been contained in a little bubble of its own time limbo this whole time. If something is to go awry, however… I do not know when I will get a second chance, or a second egg.”

The next question surprises Wrathion. “You’re not going to stay here when it hatches, are you?”

The dragon sits up with a few blinks. “What? Why wouldn’t I?”

Anduin laughs at him, but in that ‘are you stupid?’ kind of way Wrathion doesn’t care for in the least. “Because it’s a dragon. Because it’s going to be a _baby_ dragon, who may not be as smart and mouthy as you are when _you_ were a baby, but look around you, Wrathion. This place is a bonfire waiting to happen.”

He… wasn’t wrong. Though the dragon won’t indulge Anduin in actually looking around the place, he knows Karazhan is a cadaver of the sparkling mage tower it once was. Wood was as dry and brittle as it was abundant, and Deadwind Pass scarcely saw rainfall. It would be any young, feral dragon’s favorite playpen.

“… you may have a point,” Wrathion admits at last, making a face at the hint of a smile the king has pointing back at him. “It is something I will have to consider before the whelp is born.”

Something almost makes him ask if Anduin knows any place suitable-- or even worse, if the human would continue to have a role in the egg’s progress. Which was foolish; Horde activity would pick up again, and King Anduin Wrynn would surely have to be on the front lines. Besides, the rift between them was still clear: He and Wrathion were tolerating each other in this single moment in time, but there was no doubt that forgiveness would forever be out of the question. Too many secrets. Too many years. When the whelp hatches and Outland’s dragons return to their beloved Azeroth, Wrathion would no longer have need of humans or Blacktalons for company. The thought will forever be his cornerstone of hope that this will work.

With the calmer air and many a thought on both their minds, Wrathion invites the king back with him to the parlor for proper seating and food, as the dragon promised. Anduin seems willing to partake in a few desserts, at first, until it becomes apparent that a few of the pastries the dragon has available are a little _too_ familiar to the ones imported to Stormwind Keep, and Wrathion has to awkwardly confess that his birds' visits to the kingdom _did_ serve a purpose. Errand-runners, if you will, for small food things no one would even notice. A couple of pumpkins here, a pie there… A dragon has to eat, you know. Anduin was not happy, but Wrathion had come to expect nothing less at this point.

It wouldn't be long until the king insists on returning home. He had been exhausted and exasperated here thus far, but there was also a fatigue about Anduin Wrathion noticed ever since the climax of the egg's success had passed. Once or twice in the parlor, the man would lean heavily on his elbow with his chin in his hand, startling himself awake with the heavy dip of his head or the sound of Wrathion's cup being set back on its china plate. It was amusing, and Anduin was adamant about reminding him that his scientific antics were to blame for him not getting any sleep. Which, fair.

By the time Anduin was back in Stormwind, it was almost as if the air around the two of them had changed. They still weren't friends-- not by a long shot-- but there wasn't a single promise of execution or dungeon-brigging made that day, so Wrathion considers it an improvement. Whether or not the king would be interested in being kept in the know of the whelp's upbringing was another story entirely. Wrathion still wouldn’t ask, and even suspected Anduin himself did not know his own feelings on the matter. Black dragon or no, he’s known the human well enough to know that Anduin wouldn’t wish harm or corruption on any living soul, at least.

But Anduin had been sure of one thing, of which Wrathion dwells over now: Karazhan would not be a suitable place to raise an adolescent dragon. Even if the whelp could be contained without a fiery incident, there was no sense staying in the keep forever, and so close to several human settlements. Someone would notice something sooner or later. Children or adventurers would get curious like one does of any seemingly-abandoned or haunted establishment. Left and Right could be away one day, and suddenly there would be drifters worming their way into Wrathion’s base of operation.

Too many things could go wrong. Wrathion needed security, privacy- a shelter of the nonflammable variety. The egg could hatch anywhere between the next month and the next few hours. And so, Wrathion decides, he and his rogues must start packing. A map is unfurled in the parlor for the three of them to look over, plotting with desert safe-havens on their minds and thieved Stormwind tarts in their hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may not be as heavily-edited as the others because it was finished last minute, but I DID IT. Don't know how the rest of this is going to go now that classes have started back up again, but I just *clenches fist* really love these dipshits.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stormwind now has two black dragons within its walls.

For the first time since he was a young boy discovering his path to priesthood in Ironforge, Anduin overslept. Though it was not entirely uncommon for him to rise groggily from bed maybe a half hour or so after sunrise, at the behest of the tentative housekeepers knocking on his door to rouse him, it was clear by the harsh light pouring into his chambers that it was well past ten o'clock. Surely, someone tried to wake him beforehand. A couple of letters slipped under his bedroom door confirmed as such.

Anduin pinches at the crust in his eyes and almost, wistfully, entertains the idea of sleeping until noon anyway. He could not, of course, and forces himself to dress with many a yawn stifled into his hand.

Only when he spies the massive masts of the Kul Tiran ship outside his repaired window does Anduin remember the significance of the day, and all but barrels out of the room still snapping the buttons of a coat between his fingers.

It had been three days since Jaina’s letter had reached him about returning to Stormwind. The crew had no doubt ported hours ago, but securing a massive vessel ship and unloading its valuable contents takes time. Jaina and Taelia would have otherwise simply arrived by portal if this weren't an extended stay, which has Anduin's excitement mounting all over again. Bodyguards quickly fall in line and flank him as he crosses the halls, the courtyard, the stone steps and streets, then finally the docks themselves. His footfalls soon come to a less-than-graceful halt when he meets the port-bow of the ship at last.

Two familiar faces smile at him amongst the flurry of sailors: Jaina Proudmoore and Taelia Fordragon, who both gladly accept the hugs Anduin throws at them.

Jaina returns it the tightest, squeezing her arms around the boy king who had grown so much taller than her in such a short time. Or, she's shrunk in her old age, she would joke, despite the fact Anduin and all the kingdom mournfully knows she's barely scratched the surface of her mid-30s. She pulls away from Anduin, the smile on her face quickly dropping with concern. "Have you been feeling well, your Majesty?" she asks him. "You look like you haven't slept in weeks."

Anduin tries to reassure her with a sheepish look, "As a matter of fact, I actually got _too_ much sleep today. I'm sorry that I missed your arrival."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Taelia drones in a way that makes the king smile. "They barely let us walk the deck even after everything was tied up. _C__an't be too careful,_ they say, but really, they're the same lot who flinched at every rock on the ocean big enough to hide a murloc with a dart blower. Unbelievable."

It was certainly a bit unbelievable for Anduin to imagine; the Kul Tirans were a hardy folk, seasoned by a life on the sea and hardened by salt and brime. Even if he would have followed in his father's footsteps in becoming a great warrior, Anduin doesn't think he could ever hope to match the mass of muscle that seemed to come naturally from Jaina’s distant kin. One such burly deckhand passes the trio with a giant crate in his hands, forcing them to move aside as he impressively bears the stock all on his own.

"What I think Lady Fordragon meant to say," Jaina continues with a humorous tone of her own, "is that we just unboarded, and we're glad that you're here, Anduin."

Anduin takes it to the heart, and soon, the three of them are back in the keep as sailors and workers alike carry the rest of his guests' things back to their bedrooms. He's caught up with much along the way; Horde activity has gone quiet since the reappearance of Azshara; Anduin was already keeping a keen on eye reports in their efforts against her. Derek was faring better as well. Sometimes the man doubted his own free will, by which Jaina and their mother would gently convince him time and time again that he was truly himself, until those fears were repelled and dormant once more. It was exhausting work, of course it was. But it was work that Jaina did not despair over, and cherished every moment she could with what little family she had left.

There was much Taelia was involved with as well. She had been to Stormwind quite a few times as a guest of honor, but has taken it upon herself to lend her funds-- as well as her own sword-- to the cause of fortifying Alliance borders on the isles. The naga did not scare her. She had many a tale about her heroic deeds in defending her people from the creatures’ ambushes that the king suspects are only half-truths, yet finds himself enraptured with her storytelling all the same. Even Jaina can’t help looking charmed.

As much as Anduin longed to stay in her and Taelia's company, they do eventually apologize that they are quite tired from the journey out from sea, and Anduin himself did have matters he was reluctant to attend to. They part ways with the promise of dinner and, inevitably, the continued sharing of news on the warfront.

There was something odd Anduin notices on his way back to the main hall. First, there weren't many guards posted around the west wing of the keep-- Something that wasn't unusual, for the private quarters were often kept empty for traveling embassies, which always left one or two rooms for Valeera to take for herself in secret. And yet there was always a pair of soldiers patrolling the halls, and Anduin saw none. It was possible they just got roped up into helping move Jaina or Taelia's things. Someone could have asked for directions.

But as much as these thoughts seemed plausible to Anduin, there was a suspicion he still couldn’t quite shake underneath of them. He turns down the wing with caution. The farther he goes, the quieter the world around him seems to get.

The bedroom doors stand to one side of the corridor of giant windows that faced the mountain. All closed, all unguarded without occupants inside _to_ guard. No sunlight or candles flicker from under their giant oak doors. Anduin knows it would be childish to peek through the keyholes, even if no one _was_ around to see.

Just as he's about to accept the wing was merely empty this time of day, a gruff and muffled voice reaches Anduin's ears. He stops in his tracks, thankful to have woken up too late to take the time to fasten on his armor and have his steel make too much noise. Someone was in the room, the third down the hall-- the room he always secretly kept prepared for Valeera. He frowns deeply to himself, and slows his steps to quieten outside the door.

The voice continues to speak to what sounds like another occupant, who grunts back at them. Anduin realizes he cannot understand what the first intruder is saying. Part of him knows his brain was catching hints of Common, but could not comprehend a single coherent word through the muffle. He realizes it was because of an accent; Kul Tirian, as deep and brawny as the men and women who had unboarded with the ship today. A ship-hand who had gotten lost? A curious visitor, perhaps.

Yet they were still in a place Anduin did not want his efforts for his secret spymaster discovered. So he opens the door, making his presence known with all the authority he can muster alongside a kind smile. "Excuse me? This part of the keep is off limits..."

He did not mean to trail off. The presence of the large Kul Tiran man he finds is not what surprises him, although he _is_ surprised to realize he is familiar: It was the same man who carried the large crate from Jaina’s ship in fact, muscled and intimidating and, as it turns out, not alone.

The crate he had carried sits in the middle of the room, in the process of being opened by a crowbar in the hands of-- a blood elf. A blood elf who certainly wasn't Valeera, but in familiar leathers of brown and a red jewel embedded on her brow. She and Anduin lock gazes. Then she looks at the Kul Tiran. The king does the same.

The sailor had wide, sea-green eyes, a whiskered face and sun-kissed brown skin. He was a handsome man who stares at Anduin like he might faint. It startles the king when the first words out of the stranger’s mouth is a less-than-optimistic, “Ah, shit.”

Smoke fills Anduin's vision. He thinks it to be an attack, back peddling as fast as he can until his back meets the door in a scrambled crash. But instead of blades at his throat or magic coursing through his system, the smoke only fades to reveal a dragon where the Kul Tiran once stood.

Not just any dragon, of course. Anduin just doesn’t have that kind of luck these days. Wrathion groans, his voice and Alterac accent his own again within his draconic form. "Wonderful. _H__ello_ again, King Anduin. Please do not kill me."

Too late for that. Wrathion yelps, his massive dragon wings pushing himself from the floor to a precarious, wobbling perch on the bed's towering posts to avoid the shield from one of the far walls Anduin throws at him.

Anduin takes one of the decorative swords it was mounted behind next, holding it like a javelin ready to be released over his shoulder. "No. _No,_ Wrathion. This is the _last_ straw. Get _OUT_."

"King Anduin," Wrathion hisses quickly from his vantage point, "this is not what it looks like! Let me expl**_AIN_**\--" He leaps to another bedpost to avoiding the tossed sword's splintering of wood. "-- explain the situation! Stop that!"

The second decorative sword is unmounted and tossed in one fluid movement. It misses its mark and pierces itself into the stone wall's mortar, shaking wildly like rubber before slowing to a wobble. Wrathion's draconic fins are flat against his skull, and he hisses down at his sin'dorei Blacktalon, "Will you _DO_ something!"

She does. The crowbar in her hands is dropped to the floor, replaced with a dagger she brandishes with her slow approach toward the king. Even if Anduin decided to reach for the (also decorative) halberd in the corner of the room, he knows he wouldn't be a match for her. Reluctantly, Anduin relents, but doesn't cease his accusionary snapping in her charge’s direction. "That's the egg in there, isn't it. You brought the _egg_ to my _home__._"

Wrathion scoffs-- a bold response from a lizard chased into hiding in the ceiling, Anduin thinks-- and claws his way back down by the crate in question. "It was you who said it could not stay in Karazhan, King Anduin. And so I thought of the next best place: yours."

He changes forms again, this time to the skinny red-eyed human Anduin would like nothing more than to wallop a second time. Wrathion brushes invisible dust from his coat and sniffs at him. "I do admit it wouldn't be my first choice. But you see, I am... a little pressed for time."

The sin'dorei waves her dagger to the side. Anduin follows her directions, inching away from the next available weapon with his hands held out in front of him. It leads him closer to the crate, where Wrathion takes up the task in working it the rest of the way open. The rogue stands between them but doesn't obscure Anduins view. He watches the wooden sides come undone with a few minutes of effort, and reveal the egg transported in a hold of protective bindings.

There was a crack in it. Outlined by a hot and glowing red, Anduin could see the many hairline fractures breaking off from the fault. Nothing poured from it, however; not yolk nor any hint of molten liquid. It was beginning to hatch.

Anduin felt himself about to erupt. "No. No. No _no no no_ _NO_. The dragon is _NOT_ hatching in Stormwind, Wrathion!"

"It is, and you will help me with it!" Wrathion exclaims. "I cannot move it again. It will break if subjected to another day’s travel!"

Anduin can't believe this. Seeming to recognize the dispute as non-violent one now, the Blacktalon agent doesn't stop him from marching up to the crate and start pulling his own hair out. "Great. _Great._ Light above, Wrathion, what is _wrong_ with you."

The dragon makes a gawking noise. "Me! King Anduin, I know you do not want to see this creature perish any more than I do. It will be safe here! Stone walls, a giant empty corridor, half your guards already knowing my existence from weeks ago-- It will only be temporary."

Anduin didn't see any of those as valid enough reasons to torment him like this. He's fuming with his bangs tugged taut between his fingers. Wrathion just huffs back at him-- then squints. "Why do you keep wine and women’s linens in this room, King Wrynn?"

"I changed my mind. I'm going to kill you after all, Wrathion."

"I was just asking," Wrathion says, suddenly sounding nonchalant despite the situation at hand. "It’s no business of mine if you choose to indulge a special guest every once in a while...--"

The dragon yelps again to a backhand to the arm. He rubs it sulkily, but any retort is cut short by the small clatter of another piece of the egg chipping to the floor. It was a slow process, but an undeniable one: Whether he and Anduin liked it or not, a black dragon was about to claw its way into the world.

Anduin lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. Today was supposed to be his one, good day to welcome Jaina and Taelia to his home. Now he was here, assaulted in his own keep, by Wrathion’s rogues and his own fake guise as a sailor. Which reminds him. "-- how the hell did you sneak a whole egg onto Jaina’s ship?"

Wrathion blinks at him, then seems to recall. "Oh, yes. It's not like we sailed with them the whole journey. It was quite foggy on the docks this morning, so I infiltrated myself in as a crewman tasked with Lady Fordragon's favorite writing desk. Easily."

Anduin gives him a disbelieving gawk. "You didn't push her things into the ocean, did you?"

"Heavens, no," Wrathion reassures him. "Your friend and your aunt hardly brought anything heavier than a few trunks. My share of the duties was not questioned, and no one bothered to take a second inventory check of a deck that was already quite full of cargo."

"Right. Of course." Anduin was going to lose his mind. He peers over at the sin'dorei. She's made herself at home in one of the fireside chairs, looking over her blades. The king asks, "How did you get in here unnoticed, then? There's supposed to be guards at every corner. If you incapacitated them somewhere--"

The dragon suddenly beams at him. Anduin realizes in dismay that he's proud of whatever he was about to explain. "Some minor, harmless spellwork. There is a rune in this hallway that makes this area appear uninteresting to those who might remember it exists. I suppose you broke through its enchantment through sheer bullheadedness. Bravo, my king."

Soon after, there was no more immediate progress from the egg. Wrathion kneels down to check it once, confirming that the whelp inside still lived. Some just came slower than others, he guesses. It was apparent, however, that neither occupant in the room truly knew a thing about dragons at their newborn stage. The Blacktalon agent in the room had no insight to share, and Anduin could say he's never really taken the time to do research about anything of the like, himself.

Some time later the door opens, and Anduin's heart leaps in his throat. But to his immense relief, it is only Left and Right who recognizes and greets him with a nod. They’re followed by two other Blacktalons that secure the door closed behind them.

"Believe me when I say, King Anduin," Wrathion says upon their arrival, "I intend to take all the necessary precautions while my rogues and I preside here. They will help watch over the dragon, and also ensure it and I are kept out of the sight of your people. Ah-- here."

He lines up in front of the two newcomers. "My rogue you met before is Cylia. This is Brielle, and... Moss."

The first rogue, Brielle, gives the king a small nod. She was a dwarven woman, stout with red hair and bushy sideburns that tied together into the buns she wore on either side of her head. Moss was a tall and lanky Forsaken rogue who gave Anduin a bit of a start, but only greeted the king with an enthusiastic smile and glowing gold eyes. Anduin allows himself to relax and smile back. "Hello. Thank you for... ah, your help."

Not that the cause of needed help was desired in the first place, but it seems they were well past that now. Anduin's smile fades to give another weary stare to the egg, and to Left and Right who were inspecting it for themselves. They've known Wrathion for years. Maybe they knew about proper baby-dragon care. "Wrathion,” he sighs, “I can't stay in here all day. I have a meeting that was rescheduled. I'm probably late for it again, in fact."

Luckily, Wrathion doesn’t seem too disappointed. "Yes, yes, go already. I will see that you are given some kind of signal when the hatching is done."

"Please don't," Anduin warns.

"No, I insist. If there's one thing I know about dangerous predators, it is... probably best that you're among one of the first people it sees."

Anduin gives a slow, uncomforted blink. "So it doesn't eat me."

Wrathion smiles. "So it doesn't eat you, yes."

"Fantastic." Anduin takes out his hair tie to redo the mess he made in his induced stress-pulling with another sigh. "Okay, fine. But be discrete. Stay out of sight, and just..."

He turns around to give the egg another look. Moss has joined Left and Right in observing it now, while Cylia and Brielle observe at a distance. "Keep the windows locked."

The dragon is still beaming at him with Anduin's leave. Fantastic, he thinks once more. Now he was going to have to babysit two dragons.

* * *

Despite the morning's meeting being canceled before Jaina's arrival, she was invited to partake in the talks of Mechagon. It was a strange scrapyard of a place, but the promise of allies with the mechagnomes gave everyone in the room a new semblance of hope. The party continues to talk about the sudden inflation of mechanical resources, which High Tinkerer Mekkatorque was eager to put to immediate use. The Alliance was promised a new arsenal of advanced weaponry, upgraded airships, even new submarine vessels to better combat the Queen and her naga.

All of it put Anduin in a bit of unease, but it was a welcome distraction from the rest of the day's ailments on his mental health. He'll take talks of super-tech flamethrowers over the idea of a possibly-corrupted dragon in his home any day.

The longer the day stretches on without any of Wrathion's "signals", however, the more Anduin finds himself almost relaxing. He signs off on or rejected a few shipment plans, has a cup of coffee for a late lunch, and even has time to sit down with Jaina in the library.

They don’t talk, which Anduin was almost glad for. He doesn't know the kinds of things might slip out with all that's been going on in his life during her absence. She only reads from the tome in her hands, and Anduin looks over a borrowed map from their earlier meeting together. It was a comfortable silence they've sometimes adopted since his young adult years, understanding now that it could be all two people trouble by the world ever needed.

Taelia was a different story when she found Anduin alone a few hours later. They stole away into the gardens together, Taelia's noblewoman's dress replaced with leather armor and a blade in her hand. The king follows her with a practice blade of his own, much to her disappointment.

"I can't use Shalamayne for every spar," Anduin tries to reason. He parries Taelia's advance and takes a step back from her. "It’s heavy."

She takes another lunge at him, their blades meeting again and a laugh in her voice. "But I like seeing it in action! I can only imagine how it looked when your father wielded it."

"It certainly didn't look like it was meant for someone twice his size, that’s for sure." He's nearly disarmed, but Anduin recovers quickly enough to force Taelia to take a step back. "I suppose the armor helps compensate."

She laughs again. He hasn't heard someone laugh so genuinely in his presence for a long time. "Probably. Aha!"

Anduin's sword is forced out of his grip with a thrust and a twist of the blade that assaulted it, sweeping across the grass several feet away from them. His opponent smiles, and spears her own in front of her with both hands on the pommel, victorious. "Not bad this time. But I do feel like I have the advantage, King Wrynn."

Anduin looks over his shoulder at her, bending low to retrieve his sword. "What advantage?"

He frowns as Taelia approaches to touch his face-- or, grab it, really. The gesture was far from intimate; her thumb and fingers around his chin squishes his cheeks until his lips pucker like a goldfish. "Lady Proudmoore was right, you know. You look like the walking dead."

Anduin squirms out of her grip to rub at his face. "Just a little trouble sleeping," he admits. "You know... king stuff."

Taelia hums. "King stuff. Well, that explains it. King stuff, he says."

Anduin has to resist making a face. He has no reason to squabble with her like he does with certain other persons of interest. He only raises his sword again, and Taelia responds. They starts to fence again as Anduin relents and says, "It's a lot of king stuff, actually. You'd be surprised how little say I get in making my own decisions."

"What kinds of decisions?" she asks. "You get a voice in all the war councils, don't you?"

"I do," Anduin agrees. "But my voice isn't always law. Stormwind doesn't want me to leave the city. Any visit I make to Kul Tiras or Lordaeron has to be made with Greymane and Mekkatorque and a score of soldiers. They don't want me on any of the front lines."

Taelia looks thoughtful, even past the concentration it takes to parry Anduin back a step. "I don't find that too unusual. Rulers are supposed to be represented by their armies. You don't need to fight every battle."

Anduin lets out a huff of air through his nose. He stops another one of her advances, but lowers his sword soon after. "That’s the thing, though. I don’t want to fight, necessarily. I’m a priest. I heal people. I _help_ people, but it feels like I don’t help a single person when I’m locked up in here.”

As disappointed as she is about their spar being forfeit, Taelia sets her sword aside to cross over and help ease Anduin's out of his hand. She gives him a pat on his arm. "You help more people than you think. Paperwork gets arms sent to villages who otherwise don’t have a thing to defend themselves with. Your keep pays the tailors that make the blankets our barracks needs to keep them and their families warm. Do I need to keep going, or do you still have an orphanage around here that can put it in song for you?"

Anduin may have had more than his fair share of being teased today, but Taelia is an exception that actually lifts his spirits and makes him pull a little half-smile. "No," he chuckles, "I think I’m starting to understand."

It's not enough to keep him content in his ivory tower forever, but it'll be enough for now. Taelia smiling back at him makes him feel lighter than he has in days. For a moment, he almost fights with himself to keep from telling her everything, that it's not just the unrest of a king stuck in his castle, but a dragon who happens to also be a wanted criminal parading in his house and stripping away at his self control. If he could have but one ear lended to him, to talk some sense into him and listen to his tellings of the hell Wrathion's schemes have him trapped in. It wouldn't be fair, Taelia has her own problems, but in the events of a new black dragon was soon to be _everyone’s_ problem--

The opportunity passes too soon, when Anduin notices a hint of red in the distance. His heart sinks, and he has just enough sense not to let his eyes linger on the figure too long before his companion notices his attention focused elsewhere.

"Thank you, Taelia," Anduin says, still a little too quickly not to be alarming. "-- I feel better. I'm sorry to have complained so much."

"Oh, no," she insists, but Anduin eyes have flickered over her shoulder again. At least Wrathion had the sense to send a non-Horde agent; not that Brielle's intense, unblinking stare from around the corner of the gardens was doing him any favors. "-- sometime tomorrow. Yeah? Anduin?"

He jolts his attention back at her. "Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, tomorrow."

He doesn't catch what he's agreed to, but Taelia lights up all the same. Brielle continues to watch him intently as she acts as Wrathion's homing beacon: The egg is hatching, and Anduin will no doubt be dragged into witnessing it if he didn't leave of his own volition soon.

"Thank you for sparring with me," he says hastily again to the mildly-concerned Lady Fordragon. "I'll see you at dinner."

And then he's off, with an audible huff of amusement at his back that burns his ears. Brielle has disappeared, and Anduin forces himself to hurry his steps.

* * *

Being aware of Wrathion's magic makes it easier to break through it when Anduin feels that sluggish pull of sudden disinterest. He crosses the runed threshold and into the hall, the spell freeing him of its illusion with no further resistance.

The door to Wrathion's room-- _Valeera's_ room, the bastard-- is knocked on quietly. He is expected, let inside by Left who quickly latches the locks back into place. Anduin feels less than assured, even at the sight of all five Blacktalons in the room brandishing crossbows or knives in the direction of every other possible entry.

Wrathion had gotten into the wine, Anduin observes, half a bottle left opened on one desk. But he wasn't engaged in the usual exultation Anduin expected. Instead, the man sits on the bed, his legs crossed and his gaze toward the middle of the room intense. He didn’t lift his eyes at Anduin's entry or even offer a nod. His eyes were on the egg, which was now devoid of its casing of black scales and spikes.

A softer egg shell remains, more akin to the kinds of eggs one would expect from lizards or birds: a smooth surface, fragile in appearance, though still the dark color of its signature flight. It was breaking right before Anduin's eyes. More cracks run down its surface, and the king spies the scrape of a claw constructing its exit out of the seams.

Anduin still expects Wrathion to react in some sort of celebration, unnerved further when nothing of the like comes. The dragon only makes a subtle gesture, responded with a nod from Left and Right. The two women approach with crossbows at the ready. Did something change? Was corruption sensed within it after all, and the whelp would be killed?

"King Wrynn." It was the Cylia, taking one step aside. She was making a place for him to watch.

His jaw set hard, Anduin tentatively joins her at the far wall, across from where Wrathion sits, with the egg and the fragments of its struggles stewn across the floor between them.

The next few minutes pass without word or movement from anyone else in the room. More shell fragments start to splinter away. Now that it was happening without the thick and spiked barrier in the way, the hatching process was proceeding much faster. Anduin saw the claw in full now, joined by another that was kicking blindly for another exit. He heard a squeak. A trill? His head pounds in cold and unwelcome anxiety. In a matter of seconds, he really was going to have a feral dragon hidden away in his keep.

He sees Wrathion stand when it finally happens. Four distinct paws flail when the last of the shell falls away. In the debris of its escape, an entire black dragon whelp rolls on its side and squawks loudly. There is a struggle to unfold its wings, its tail making jerky movements from side to side.

Its eyes open, and Anduin sees they were green and unfocused. Blind? No; it was only a newborn animal. Anduin could see now that the rest of its movements could attest to that; it was simply a new little life in the world, wobbling and screeching weakly upon its arrival.

As Wrathion approaches the pathetic creature, Left and Right train their crossbows more diligently on it. The thing only continues to cry, new and confused, the fins on its skull giving rigid twitches to the older dragon's approach.

Anduin finds himself holding his breath when Wrathion puts his hand on its head. The creature goes still, unable to assess what is happening. It makes another noise, its maw hanging only slightly open with it to reveal dozens of the smallest teeth the king's ever seen. It does not threaten to bite. After several long moments of silence from Wrathion, his hand finally draws away. He starts to beckon the occupants in the room over, one by one.

Left and Right lower their crossbows, and Anduin can see that they are not loaded with the usual bolt, but bolas with netting attached; a containment tactic should something go dangerously awry. They too reach out their hands to place on the whelp's head. It squawks, its head tilting to in an obvious show of sniffing them.

The other three rogues are next, repeating the ritual of touching the whelp and then letting it take in their scent. Moss, the Forsaken agent, _does_ almost get bitten, but the man only grins a row of yellow teeth and coos at the thing. Anduin suspects it would be for the best if the dragon did not get any rotting meat in its mouth.

At last, Wrathion's eyes meet his. His expression is still as intense as when the king walked in, but there's a change to his eyes. They burn brighter. In them, Anduin sees the flame of success, and yet there is something more. Something Wrathion can't say. Not yet.

Anduin isn't beckoned over with a finger or a gesture, but only with the dragon's nod. This was going to be it. The king was going to be a part of this gangly creature's life until, he prays, it was fit for Wrathion to relocate it.

Anduin kneels down in front of the dragon on his good knee, who senses his movements and makes a curious noise at him. He peels a glove off, hesitates, then places his palm upon its scaled head. Like before, the whelp only gives the smallest trill of protest, but does not yet have the strength to fight the weight off. Its head tilts, sniffing loudly, taking in Anduin's human scent until it is presumably familiar. Those large green eyes blink unseeing at him. In no time, the king suspects, they will surely be developed enough to turn the beast into a curious disaster.

"Healthy," Wrathion says. Perhaps it was meant to be an announcement of sorts, something that would be a cause of celebration for his success. He only continues to pass his intense gaze over the whelp as Anduin stands and steps away, however.

It almost looks as if it might try to follow Anduin's retreat, but it stumbles, deigning instead to rest its chin on an egg fragment and close its eyes. "And male,” Wrathion continues. “His magic is dormant, however. Speech will take time to reach him."

Not knowing much about the early stages in dragon culture, Anduin just nods slowly. He, too, can't take his eyes off the dragon. A tiny, healthy, time-lost _male dragon_, breathing within Stormwind's borders, which is more than could be said about the occupants who once lingered here in the past.

Yet Wrathion did not say if corruption lingered within him. With a sweat that threatens to break out on the back of his neck, Anduin wonders if it is what has concern written all over the man's face. Anduin asks instead, "What will you call him?"

Concern or not though, Wrathion actually looks back at him to smile. "Dragons choose their own names. We will know when he’s ready."

'We' confirmed yet another one of Anduin's original fears: Wrathion did, in fact, tend to stay for some length of time with the whelpling. The little thing was still asleep when the Blacktalons began to clean the floor of the shell and the opened crate. Anduin sees out of the corner of his eye that many of the blankets on the bed had been stripped, used to create a scooped nest of sorts in one corner of the room by the hearth. It was... Well, it was cute, and probably not an idea Wrathion came up on his own. Of course he wouldn't, when he's been staring at the dragon like a science experiment since its birth.

"Are you sure you're going to be able to contain him in here?" Anduin asks. He watches Wrathion bristle, and cuts him off. "Listen. Believe it or not, I'm willing to admit I'm impressed with all this. I'm _glad_ the dragon's okay, even. But he's going to start moving around and doing more of his baby screaming sooner or later. I need your word that this won't lead to me having to explain _w__hy_ I'm letting you smuggle yourselves in here against my will."

And still Wrathion continues to regard him with a sour look, but he does eventually sigh. He rolls his shoulders underneath his pauldrons. "And I, too, shall admit that it may not be easy. But I do not want this endeavor compromised any more than you do. I will be careful."

"Alright." Anduin puts his glove back on and gives the whelp another look. Left was carrying him now, the baby giving more little noises of protest before being safely deposited in his awaiting nest. "... alright. We're going to talk more about this later."

"I take it that means I'm not invited to dinner," Wrathion simpers.

"No," Anduin agrees, unphased. "Absolutely not."

"Very well."

They exchange one last thing unspoken, then. There is still much to discuss, too sensitive and too alarming too simply announce to the rest of the agents in the room. Anduin could feel it: Underneath all the calculating stares, there is a worry alight in the brimstone of Wrathion's gaze. The king leaves the room, playing in his mind a hundred different ways his kingdom could fall to ruin in the short time it takes him to reach the dining hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to ilikeyoshi who I've stolen the "dragons choose their own names" thing, which seems pretty damn plausible when Warcraft dragons are known to be conscious while still in the egg. And thank you to all the kudos and comments I've gotten on my first real fic. ; w ;
> 
> One of these days I'm going to sit down and think of actual chapter names, since seeing "Chapter 5: Chapter 4" has been bothering the heck out of me. This chapter is called "I would die for Taelia Fordragon".


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrathion reveals the complications of the whelpling he presides over.

Even when forbidden from dinner, Wrathion had plenty of pilfered provisions to keep himself fed and happy on his own. He had already gone through one bottle of wine that was hidden in the room, and was content to finish off the last of his meal while the whelpling dozed.

Despite teasing Anduin about the room belonging to a secret mistress, he knows deep down that that wasn't the case. The king had admitted years ago, in an exasperated fluster after being questioned about a future betrothed when he was to return from Pandaria, that he did not prefer to seek out the company of women. Not only that, but Wrathion had also found a rather impressive collection of shivs underneath the mattress he was currently resting on. Whoever Anduin's special guest was, they were well taken care of, and well prepared.

Only Left and Right remain in the room with him now, the other three tasked with keeping their position guarded and an eye out for anyone who might approach. So far, his runes were holding fast to lure away any unwanted guest who thought they might need to take up their duties here, choosing instead to shrug and leave the halls be. It was for the best. The whelpling was bound to cause a fuss at any moment without notice.

Wrathion's head swivels toward the whelp in question when he notices something slightly frightening: The dragon was twitching every so often, from his head to the tips of its claws in his sleep. Sometimes they would be but little spasms, and sometimes they seemed quite violent.

From the bedpost, Wrathion startles when Right notices him and says, “That’s normal. Even when they’re ready to hatch, their nerves still need time to develop.”

Wrathion clears his throat. "Of course." He knew that.

He didn't know that. Right knows he doesn't know as much, the barest hint of amusement in her voice even without looking in her charge's direction. She continues to speak despite Wrathion's protesting glare. "You were like that too. But after a few days, you were already on your feet and giving everyone orders. It’ll probably just take him a little longer.”

Wrathion doesn’t reply-- partially because he doesn’t want to engage in anymore banter about his childhood. That much Right could understand, and would have enjoyed taking up on anyway.

But he also doubts her claims about how slow the dragon’s development process might be. There was something amiss with his sibling, which he had realized as soon as the first scaled layer of the egg had fallen apart last evening. The process was happening too quickly. Even as intelligent as Aspect flights were as infants, the rate of which the whelpling was tumbling his way into the world was… unnerving. It was all too much too soon.

And, as much as he quite enjoys getting on every last one of Anduin’s nerves lately, the dragon reminds himself that he and his agents will have to find shelter for the creature elsewhere soon. It and Wrathion must remain in hiding, the young dragon observed until Wrathion had what he needed to ensure the Black flight’s permanent return as Azeroth’s protectors. If the thing continues to grow at they rate he was now, there wouldn’t be much time. The younger dragon gives another violent tremor within his nest under Wrathion's observation, then goes still with but a small breath of sleep.

That was his family lying in that haphazard pile of cloth. An entire black dragon, brought to life by Wrathion’s hand in alchemy, in magic, in the efforts of wars now past and the pieces their conflicts had left behind.

What would a younger version of himself have to say about all this? The Black Prince was once an ambitious ringleader hellbent on unity between the Alliance and the Horde. He was willing to prove his worth, prove that uniting together as one unstoppable force could be possible, by slaying his family who was also Azeroth's greatest enemy. Wrathion could be their most powerful ally against any alien force, so long as the two factions could only promise to work together.

Hellscream had torn his ambitions apart at the seams. One by one, the pieces Wrathion had laid so precariously across the board fell and crumbled in his hands, and it was that day that the dragon realized: There was no longer a point in trying to get the two sides to meet in the middle. Wrathion abandoned his support of the Horde. He betrayed those in attendance of the Trial. And, for the first time, Wrathion had felt the weight of his dragon slaying on his shoulders. He had marked himself as the last of his kind, and suddenly found himself remorseful that there was no longer a sense of pride in having made a rarity of himself.

The world was undoubtedly safer without an entire species influenced by the Old Gods. There was no convincing him or anyone else otherwise. But if he thinks if he had only pursued the same research and resources he had in his possession sooner, things might be different today.

He’s so far away in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize Right is no longer on his side of the room. Wrathion finds her beside Left, the two of them knelt in front of the whelp that had just woken and began making ghastly noises at them. What he recognizes to have once been a mincemeat pie-- one of the many stolen foods they had in their possession-- was being offered to the dragon in small bites. The pie crust was being stripped away and discarded in a bowl, while the whelpling greedily gobbles up the remaining filling offered to him. Thankful that his rogues were content to take up the mantle of the adolescent's care, Wrathion settles in a sprawl across the bed with his head against the pillows.

He unwraps his turban to run a hand through his long hair. It was getting late. Though he had no desire to rest, he had even less of a desire to get lost in his depressing hindsight again. He closes his eyes and lets dreamless sleep guide his way home.

* * *

Jaina frowns as she watches the king pace back and forth in front of the map. Varian Wrynn’s greatest weakness as king had been his blind, hyper-determination to see the end of any problem until it gnawed away at him from the inside, and Anduin no doubt had inherited that pesky gene. Jaina suspects, however, that it was not just Zandalar that troubled her nephew's mind.

“Anduin,” she prods at him, successfully pulling his attention away from the map hanging on the wall. “Come sit down. Drink your...”

She pauses, peering over the ceramic mug that sat on the edge of the table and giving its contents a whiff. Was that coffee? No wonder he was pacing himself into a hole in the ground.

But Anduin does join her, looking apologetic as he resumes cradling his drink in his hands. “Sorry. What if the Zandalari’s death loa is right, though? Sylvanas Windrunner was made Warchief because of Old God manipulation?”

The idea troubles Jaina too. It’s been troubling her for days. She contemplates over the concern with a sip of her tea and a furrow in her brow. “So far, she hasn’t made a move to contest the claims. I’ll even admit, it’s become the least of our worries now that N’zoth has reappeared with naga and their Queen.”

She watches Anduin stare off in thought. The dim morning light from the study window deepened the color of the circles under his eyes and accented the worry lines in his forehead. Every time he and Jaina were together, it only seemed that the Alliance’s efforts were wearing just a little more away at them both.

They sat in silence for a while. She decides to change the subject to something lighter when a thought re-occurs to her. “You and Taelia are going to your father’s memorial today, right?”

Anduin quickly looks at her and blinks. “Pardon?”

“This afternoon,” Jaina reminds him. “Weren’t you going to see both your fathers’ resting places?”

Anduin’s lost and worried stare soon tells her that, it seems, that he was not aware of these plans. It turns him sheepish, and his aunt sympathetic as she smiles at him. “I must have forgotten,” he says. “But I’d like that. Would you be interested in joining us?”

“I would,” Jaina says, but there is a small sigh in her voice. “Though I had already agreed to making a visit to the Mage Quarter with one of your advisors today. Give your father my prayers for me.”

The earlier panic on Anduin’s face gives way to a small, grateful smile at her. He nods. “I will.”

He looks faraway again soon after, turning Jaina’s efforts of distraction moot. Something was troubling him, and certainly has for days. In their letters together, the mage found herself more often than not writing of the troubles that plagued her, whether it would be of the Horde’s advances or her brother’s condition. Sometimes she found herself writing just to vent, and would receive replies of reassurances and his own prayers for her. But so rarely did Anduin write back of anything more than surface issues; political unrest, some reports from his spies or champions. It was another trait he had inherited so strongly from Varian: The boy was determined to keep his troubles to himself until he could find the solution all on his own, thinking he would burden those he loved otherwise. It was far from the truth. Jaina loved him like he really was her own nephew.

“Anduin,” she says quietly, reaching her hand to take one of his. “I can tell something is going on with you. You know you can tell me anything.”

The king hesitates to meet her eye. When he does, Jaina can see that she was correct. He looks conflicted. He takes a moment to look around the room.

They were alone, the door to Anduin’s study closed and two guards just beyond it. Jaina feels him give her hand a tighter hold, at last gathering up the courage to what Jaina hoped was him about to confide in her. “It’s… a troubling matter, Aunt Jaina. Weeks ago, there were giant carrion birds that infiltrated the keep and Stormwind’s farm lands. Have you happened to hear anything about this?”

Jaina couldn’t say that she has. She shakes her head, and Anduin continues. “It happened weeks ago, and one was chased into my quarters before it was captured. Days later, I was able to find out that they were coming from Karazhan. We then found the individual responsible for their odd visits.”

That certainly does seem odd to Jaina. The wildlife in Deadwind Pass were known to be hostile to any stray adventurers, but also very remote; to be controlled and convinced to go as far as Elwynn was very alarming indeed. So was the idea of Karazhan being occupied. “Khadgar?” she asks.

Anduin’s mouth thins into a grim line. He hesitates, then says,“Wrathion.”

The cup in Jaina’s hand comes down hard on its saucer. The king doesn’t flinch, the expression on his face undoubtedly matching the storm brewing across hers. For a long time, Jaina had no real opinion of the Black Prince. Varian had his worries, but when the both of them had met Wrathion in the flesh for the first time, the dragon was nothing but openly friendly to Stormwind’s prince, and carried an air of mystery in every other moment in-between. It was only when those in attendance of the Trial knew better when Anduin and the bronze dragon Chronormu were found unconscious, and Jaina had learned days later that Wrathion had orchestrated many-- if not all-- of the assassinations and sabotages against the Alliance in Krasarang.

The tiny clatter of shaking china tells Jaina to release her white-knuckle grip on her cup’s handle. She takes a deep breath, willing the anger away just far enough to steady her hands and her words. She looks at Anduin again. “What happened to him?”

“He escaped,” the king says. “He had made himself known in the throne room after we captured the bird, and he was put in the stockades until we could decide what to do about him. But now he’s gone, and Karazhan now sits empty.”

He stops to run a hand down his face. Tired. Anduin looks so tired, so full of grief that Jaina now understands. He adds, “His appearance was bold, but those who saw him have been sworn to secrecy. I ask that you too do not tell anyone of what happened, either.”

Jaina nods slowly. “Of course. Light, Anduin. I’m so sorry.”

Sorry for what, specifically? Naturally the stress of a wanted war criminal appearing out of thin air and vanishing, that is not to difficult to give understanding. But part of her cannot help feeling sympathetic for Anduin himself. Whatever his current opinions of the Black Prince, it was obvious that the two of them were once the closest of friends as boys.

If any traces of that friendship and compassion lingered, however, they were far from Anduin’s face. It was hard, unreadable. He takes his hand away from hers to wrap back around the mug in his lap. “There have been no more signs of him since his escape. We cannot afford to expend any more resources on finding him, either.

“… I am fine,” he adds, softly so for Jaina’s benefit. He allows himself another small smile for her. “There wasn’t any kind of attack, and I’m ready to just. Forget about it.” His leer behind a large, unpausing sip of his coffee nearly makes Jaina chuckle. “I appreciate having someone to share this with, Aunt Jaina… thank you.”

Soon, Jaina departs from the Anduin's company with the king’s troubles still about her. The Black Prince’s sudden appearance was cause for alarm indeed, especially in times like these. If there was a connection between him and the unrest across Azeroth happening now, she knows Anduin would be one of the first vengeful individuals trying to get to the bottom of it.

There is a detour on her way out of the keep. Something catches her mind’s eye, plucking at her magical senses like a string in the unoccupied throne room. Already ill at ease, Jaina starts the careful attempt of pinpointing the source.

It was a feeling she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was clearly a very minor form of magic, familiar in a way an enchanted broom or an arcane light fixture might be. Stormwind Keep rarely indulged in using electricity, and even Anduin’s scribes chose to write everything by hand rather than spellbound quills or printing machinery. So where…?

Just as she passes the stone archway into an empty hall, the feeling of active spellwork dissipates. She looks around, expecting a triggered trap, or merely a once-animated object gone dormant. There was nothing that catches her eye. The suite doors in the hallway were all left slightly ajar, telling that this wing was unoccupied of guests.

If she lingered here too long snooping around, she would upset the archmages waiting for her in the city. Jaina suppresses a grimace at the idea of being sweet to the impatient Kirin Tor awaiting her.

Thus, she leaves the hall without further investigation, oblivious to the two dragons and five rogues holding their breath on the third suite’s balcony until she is gone. The runes are re-activated the second Jaina Proudmoore steps foot out of the keep.

* * *

The trip to King Varian Wrynn’s memorial that afternoon was quiet and somber. Anduin and Taelia ride on horseback, the king favoring his golden mare and Taelia borrowing a well-mannered Paint. The clack of metal hooves was the only sound to penetrate the fog around them. Then, once the two humans arrived at the memorial, there was no sound between them at all.

Despite the shrouded chill of approaching winter, the memorial gardens were still as green as ever. Magic, Anduin knows; Stormwind’s newly-renovated park was green all year around now, while the rest of the city’s trees and vegetation would wither then blossom again in spring as nature intended. It had not been Anduin’s idea, but he found himself appreciating it when his and Taelia’s travel here was immensely bleak by all other accounts.

It was always so striking to Anduin. Outside the keep, Varian’s statue stood proud, and taller than life. But the memorial in front of him was only that: A memorial, the old king’s likeness carved into stone for a resting place his body did not truly reside in. If the old wolf could have any say about it, Anduin suspects Lo’gosh would have rather chosen to have his spirit inhabit the one where he was standing as an unrelenting protector over his kingdom.

Taelia had brought flowers. One bundle is set on Varian’s grave-- joining so many other flowers and offerings left by the city-- before the two of them move on. Another trip on horseback would lead the two toward Stormwind’s cathedral. And behind it, its cemetery. Like Varian Wrynn, Bolvar Fordragon’s tomb would not possess a body. The tomb had been erected shortly after Northrend’s campaign came to a close, when all had thought the man had given his life distracting the Lich King from the Argent forces that soon vanquished him. For the longest time, Anduin was heartbroken, but content, to think the man who had become like a father to him could rest a hero.

Such was not the case when it was revealed that Bolvar, the Lich King whose tarnished body and soul burned eternal, led the attacks against the Silver Hand forces in the time of the Legion invasion. His memorial was vandalized much that year. But Anduin ordered it to be kept clean, and kept in one piece.

Taelia places the flowers underneath the plaque bearing her father’s name. The letters were already worn from so many efforts of repair. Anduin puts a hand on her shoulder, and she wraps one arm around his waist in a heavy hug.

Though they were not truly alone among the graves, the fog was thick enough that it was easier for Anduin to ignore the presence of sentries at every corner to watch over them. He and Taelia walk among the cemetery path, paying visit to many fallen soldiers, generals; old beloved advisors and Anduin’s own mother, talking idly in hushed voices before deciding to return back to the keep to shake the chill from their bones. Although the venture had come unbeknownst to him, the king could not deny the peace he felt leaving the city. It was nice to have plans that did not involve the war. It was nicer to have company that did not ask him for so much secrecy.

Which is exactly why it takes so much willpower for Anduin to force himself to seek out Wrathion and the whelpling again after dinner, and well into the late evening. He might have checked in sooner if his concern for the young dragon’s discovery could _just_ outweigh how much he despised being in Wrathion’s company. It was a tall order.

When he knocks, he’s greeted by the face of Moss, which gives him another start he immediately feels foolish for. The undead rogue only smiles pleasantly at him, going through the same procedure of letting Anduin inside before the locks are done again.

Anduin sees that the other Blacktalon agents are gone for the rotation of duties. Wrathion himself remains, sitting on the floor with a bemused expression on his face. His turban was unwrapped on the bed, and he had shed his coat, boots and gloves to make himself comfortable… or, less irritated. Anduin had a few guesses as to why.

The little dragon was awake. Not only that, but he was climbing everything in sight. The pants and grunts pushed from his maw were not unlike those expected from an excitable small dog, as the creature’s claws scale its way up the fireplace’s chimney, across the pole of a hanging tapestry, to the window panes that Moss rushes over to conceal with the curtains. The dragon climbs on those too, until he loses his balance and starts his slow, fabric-ripping decent to the floor.

Anduin is too taken aback to be horrified about having to explain the damage. It was only yesterday that the dragon had hatched and appeared too helpless to so much as support keeping his own head up. Now, he was active and climbing and _running_, as he darts past Wrathion on all four paws to greet the king’s shiny armored feet. Wrathion himself was rubbing at his temple as if to expel a migraine.

“He sure is… coming along,” Anduin comments. He bends himself low at the waist to offer the whelp his hand. It’s sniffed at diligently.

“Yes,” Wrathion grumbles in reply, his fingertips rubbing firmer against his skull. “That is actually what I was hoping to speak to you about. If you do not mind discussing it with me in the other room.” He stands, immediately earning the interest of the whelp that bounds away to chirp and squawk at the dragon. Wrathion looks less than thrilled, but asks Moss to stay watch while the two of them-- three, counting the eager hatchling-- move into the lounge arrangement just beyond the washroom.

This is what Anduin had been waiting for. Something was going to be wrong with the whelp, and it was going to mean disaster for them all. He watches Wrathion sigh heavily as he falls into a velvet love seat, then grunt and try to push the whelp away with it comes bounding to join him. Anduin’s paranoia was thinning his patience. “Tell me what’s going on, right now.”

Two red eyes stare flatly at Anduin from under the dragon’s brows. Wrathion lays back across the sofa cushions, accepting defeat from the young dragon’s determination to crawl all over him. He throws an arm over his face that conceals everything but his mouth. “As it turns out, the youngling is much like me.”

Anduin… doesn’t understand. Like Wrathion how? “Because you’re a pain?” he tries.

“Ha, ha.” Though the dragon does take a moment to collect his thoughts. “He is… growing at an accelerated rate. Much like I do, but that is because my existence was constructed to execute the Red’s plans as soon as possible, with no time for me to live out my infancy or childhood. His developments, however-- that has nothing to do with the science used to bring him here.”

But Anduin _does_ have a suspicion about what might be tied to these unusual developments. Wrathion is still concealing his eyes to hide from the resurfacing of Anduin’s frustrations. “I bet it has something to do with the Bronze magic you stole,” he points out.

That at least gets Wrathion to drop the arm and glare sideways back at him. “Yes, King Anduin, I’m a traitor and a thief. Might we move on?”

Anduin sweeps his hand to give the dragon the floor to explain himself. Wrathion gruffs harshly, but remains where he lies. The whelp is given a heatless kick when it starts to gnaw curiously at the sofa cushions. “You are correct. Remember when I said the egg was being brought back to our time unharmed, as if preserved in a limbo of its own?”

Anduin nods. The dragon continues. “His body and mind is… playing catch-up with ours. Or, trying to. You see, I have taken a few books from Karazhan and your library-” A gesture toward a pile of books on a writing desk confirmed as much. “- and did some research by comparing the remains of the egg’s outer shell to the descriptions of dragon aging cycles.

“By all accounts, King Anduin...” Wrathion slips off, then turns his gaze back to the human with a pinch to his features. “The whelp was not communicating with me in its egg, because it had not developed within it long enough to gain consciousness. And yet here it is, barely in four days’ time, already on its way to learning how to fly. My biggest fear is that it will also, perhaps, accelerate the rate of vulnerability to the planet’s corruption.”

Anduin could already see where this was going. Corruption, magic, a dragon the size of an airship in less than a week's time... But Wrathion must sense the king's anxieties, for he sits proper on the love seat to regard him seriously. His long, curly hair had fallen over his forehead, pushed back with an impatient swipe of claws. "Let me trace back a little. His growth is accelerating, but the process was at its highest point in the incubation stage. It took him three days to hatch, when in reality he probably needed at least a year more to develop his magical abilities within the egg. Why, then, wouldn't he also be a drake by now? By all accounts, if the estranged time field surrounding him is capable of accelerating like that, he should be growing right before our eyes."

A frown. Anduin peers over at the whelp. "The acceleration is slowing down."

Wrathion nods. "My theory is that _this_ time we are currently residing in is overpowering the one that protected him. There are bronze dragons at work every day to maintain the time stream, and the Dark Portal has been opened and closed enough times cause its own duress to Azeroth. Plus all that complicated business with how Suramar protected itself, which is what gave me the idea-- Which I hope can only mean he does not age too rapidly for the Old Gods to reach him."

It may sound like a far-stretched theory out loud, but Anduin vividly recalls what Wrathion had told him back in Karazhan: the protective magic from Highmountain could wane overtime with distance, as could the thousands of years of the whelp's lineage before the Old Gods seized the minds of the black dragonflight. They were both only theories. So was the exact rate of the young dragon's growth. Wrathion had a very high-stakes situation of mere guessing on his hands.

"And what do you do if he does fall to corruption?" Anduin asks. It feels like another outcome-- the most horrible outcome-- that the dragon had been avoiding answering this whole time. "You still intend to let it live?"

And it was still obvious that Wrathion was uncomfortable with giving a direct answer. He looks up at Anduin, tilting his head to one side as he did in his cell in the stockades. It was that same look he had when Anduin accused him of doing nothing during the Legion's assault-- before he knew of Wrathion's true ploys to his disappearance.

"I do intend to let him live," Wrathion says. "And I believe... I have found a way of keeping the whispers back. From the whelp, from Ebyssian. For myself, even… if there is ever a day my purification were to suddenly fail."

There is a smile on the dragon's face, but it does not meet the signs of unrest etched around his eyes. The small black-scaled creature at his side has started to doze again."But the solution is yet another dragon secret, King Anduin Wrynn,” Wrathion adds with a tense lift of his smile. “One that I hope I never will have to tell you how I came to obtain it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 8.2.5 week!! Good thing the Alliance still isn't contributing anything worthwhile to the story so I can keep writing my own however I want. This chapter wasn't very exciting either, but I promise the good stuff is coming.
> 
> AND I know I said consistent updates might get a little dubious with classes started, but now I have a LOT more stuff on my plate than I had originally. I'm literally just writing fic in Discord and putting it in a proper doc for editing at the last minute. Thank you again for reading!!!!


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many people are going to break into Stormwind before Anduin finally agrees to a smartcastle security system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for violence, and non-graphic mention of decapitation. Enjoy!!

The comfortable silence Anduin indulged in with company like Jaina or Taelia was always that: a silence of the comfortable stock. This was not the case with Wrathion. When the two were alone together, the air was heavy with scrutiny. It was blatantly clear that both men were determined to give the other considerable distance, only finding themselves meeting again and again through the power of thinly-veiled compromise.

The Blacktalons' surveillance rotation soon came around again: Moss leaves the suite to be replaced by Left, who comes bearing more food for the squeaking whelp to devour-- by which Anduin could no longer muster the strength to be suspicious about its source. The curtain was drawn aside with the orc's entry, and he sees from the blackness of the distant window that it is quite late.

He sighs and wipes the lurking sleep away from his heavy eyes with the back of his hand. It would seem he was never to know the joys of a proper night’s sleep ever again.

He must be too caught up with his battle for consciousness to notice Wrathion watching him. The dragon’s lips purse, and he inquiries out loud, "What were you and Lady Fordragon discussing over swordplay yesterday?"

It was a tone Anduin was familiar with-- Wrathion inquiring about what he would hope was a potential scandal with the mundane air as one might discuss the weather-- and the king wasn't nearly in the mood to put up a proper front about it. "Nothing that concerns you."

"No?" Wrathion perches his cheek in his hand, settling back in a comfortable lounge. He really was looking for gossip. "Because from what I was told, it sounds like you are sitting discontentedly on your throne."

"Are you spying on me?" Anduin asks.

"Oh, no, I don't nearly have enough resources for that anymore," Wrathion says, and the king feels his temper prick at the assumption of an _anymore_. "I had sent Brielle to collect you, after all, and was merely curious about what she heard. You think those beneath you do not listen to you?"

"It’s not just them who won't listen to me, apparently." Anduin stands, pushing aside an ottoman with his foot that the dragon was just about to rest his own feet upon.

Wrathion grunts with the near-stumble, glaring at the human, and deciding to instead stand and follow as Anduin starts to stalk out of the room. "I'm trying to have an empathetic conversation with you, King Anduin. You can tell me what is on your mind."

But Anduin whirls at him, and Wrathion stops at a polite distance with his hands folded behind his back. Trying to look the part of a friend lending a shoulder to cry on. The king knew better. "And I suppose you want to give me advice on what I'm doing wrong.”

"I do," Wrathion replies, without a trace of humility.

Anduin rolls his eyes. He strides out of the adjacent room with the dragon on his heels. Left barely pays them any mind."Oh, King Wrynn, will you just hear me out?"

"No," Anduin quips over his shoulder. "If I _really_ need someone to whine to, which I do not, I have Lady Proudmoore. I told her of your appearance."

That has Wrathion stopping in his tracks, and Anduin smiles over his shoulder in satisfaction at the dragon's affronted look. Wrathion bristles, "What do you mean, you told her about me? Does she know I am here?"

"No," Anduin finds himself admitting, but he still enjoys how crossed Wrathion looks. "Just that you stomped your way into my throne room and escaped your hanging. I think I deserve a 'thank you' for steering her and my men away from investigating any traces you might have left in Karazhan."

It was Wrathion's turn to roll his eyes. They remain skyward on the ceiling until, obviously reluctant, he says, "Yes, _thank you_, King Anduin. Now. Your kingly unrest?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Anduin immediately says again. "You don't get say or sway in how I act as a monarch."

But before he knows it, the black dragon was suddenly in front of Anduin. As hard as he set his face, with the king shooting a warning look back at him, his red eyes were surprisingly thoughtful. They examine Anduin up and down, frowning with that same pensiveness that did not suit the banter they were using with one another. It would seem those efforts were not entirely forfeit of badgering, however. "You do not get sway in how I conduct my research or my previous actions of Draenor, either. But that certainly hasn't stopped you from rebuking my efforts to my own lineage. Has it, your Majesty? I would think the least you can do is allow me to offer some harmless advice, nothing more."

"I don't owe you anything."

"Your allies would stop walking all over you if you were half as firm with them as your father was."

Anduin’s nerves were being grated. The dragon had done it once before at his cold recollection of Teldrassil's downfall. Wrathion didn't even show satisfaction for the king's stunned silence, only taking it as an initiative to press forward. "You must be firm if you want to be a man of action. Who, exactly, can stop the High King of the Alliance from setting shores to Zandalar, to Boralus? Who has that kind of power?"

Anduin still couldn't believe what he was hearing. "It's not that simple, Wrathion."

"I recall from history that your father was among those in the final assault against Arthas Menethil and the Citadel." Anduin thinks he might start his annoying finger-jabbing again, but Wrathion’s hand only reaches out to jostle the steel lion head on the human's shoulder. "He was a powerful man who demanded respect. He did not let peons and people like Genn Greymane keep him from lending his blade to a battle. You could be on the front lines again, to fight, or to heal. The only person in power keeping you from doing so is _you, _and you know it."

The words... weren't hitting Anduin as strongly as they were meant to. He was instead lost the memories of his father, a man who was as brave as he was brash-- Who commanded his own freedom, just as Wrathion had said.

But it was also Varian’s infamous lust for battle that left Anduin to rule the throne alone for so many years at a time. When he had been a gladiator, when he had gone to Icecrown. When Azeroth needed forces on Draenor, and then, Varian Wrynn's untimely death on the Broken Shore.

It occurs to Anduin so suddenly-- and he despises the idea of Wrathion having a _point_\-- that he has no one to burden the same way. Anduin did not have a child to leave for months on end, to leave the duties of a whole kingdom in that hands of one young prince and a legion of advisors to insist that prince was too young to know better. He did not have to burden allies like Jaina or Saurfang, because there was now the strong likelihood that the three of them might very well find themselves figthing alongside one another.

Could he really go against the captains that wanted him safe here? Many of the men and women in his inner circle had practically raised him. Genn Greymane, as hot-headed as he tended to be, also worried over Anduin because he cared about him, in his own way. Anduin was Varian's son, and Varian his best friend, and the old worgen man was estranged from his own family already. His protectiveness was executed out of some sort of distant affection.

Wrathion was still watching him; expectant, but not so grandiose as his usual imparted wisdom made him. His hand comes away from Anduin's pauldron. "This war will end sooner with your aid-- your _proper_ aid, King Anduin. Even I must admit, your methods of diplomacy were not always so… misguided."

Anduin cannot think of a thing to say. They regard each other for a few moments longer before Anduin takes a step forward to the door. Wrathion does not stop him.

He has his hand on the handle when he looks back, finding Wrathion giving one last look over the whelp resting its head on Left's knee. The window the orc had entered through is opened to its widest point, where Wrathion climbs out before changing into his dragon form on the balcony.

His reptilian eyes roll back in the king's direction. Though Anduin couldn't read dragon faces well, he assumes by the tone that the toothy maw was upturned in a smile. "Consider it for yourself by the time the whelp and I have taken leave. I will be looking forward to reading your name in history alongside your father’s."

"Lock the window until I am back," he adds quieter to Left. Anduin did not have the energy to berate him about the dangers of taking a leisurely midnight flight. It was dark, and Anduin could deal with any repercussions in the morning. Left nods, Wrathion flies, and Anduin leaves.

The avoidance rune prods at his mind when he leaves the hall, then dissipates once Anduin is out of its reach. There was a set of stone stairs Anduin needed to climb to get to his chambers on the other side of the keep, and his exhaustion loathes him for the coming exertion. Sleep. He wants to sleep so bad. His body was telling him so, but his mind was floundering over the continuing developments of the whelp and... No. There would be no taking Wrathion's advice to heart. There was no trusting someone that had a life sentence of treason around his neck.

But the hatchling poses a problem he longs to be rid of first and foremost. A slowing aging rate was the best case scenario. The worst, of course, was that Wrathion was wrong about the process slowing down, and Anduin would wake to a giant dragon on the roofs of the Trade District. It would not be the first time, though he desperately prays it would not make itself the last.

An inaudible sigh escapes through Anduin's nose. He starts to unfasten the pauldrons from his shoulders to carry under one arm, instantly rushed with relief of the weight being burdened elsewhere. The halls are quieter so late at night, and he was less concerned with being caught in a disheveled state than he would normally.

The guards would give him a few odd looks of course, but so far... there were none to catch sight of their king. Not a patrol, not a pair of escorts who always seemed to find Anduin as if a goblin tracker was put in his neck at birth. Were the halls really so barren this late at night?

Ah-- there. Anduin spies a suit of armor decorated in accents of Stormwind's blue and gold. They stand tall at the corner of the long corridor leading to the throne room. Hopefully, Anduin could get by without being questioned too harshly.

He has a smile ready for the face peering at him from the helmet’s slotted plate when he passes. When he does walk by however, it is not a friendly face that greets him.

It was, as a matter of fact, the face of a corpse.

Anduin drops the pauldrons under his arms. They fall to the floor and knock against the dead guard propped against the wall, sending him falling in a heavy crash of steel. Blood pours from the crevices of the chainmail around the man’s neck. Anduin feels he Light coming to the rescue of his mounting panic. He takes a step back from the fallen solider, only to have his heel hit the body of another.

He turns. The throne room was littered with bodies. A pair of guards were murdered unwittingly at their posts. Six more had charged at the assailant or assailants with weapons at the ready, only to be cut down and left discarded in a sprawl. There was blood, too much blood for Anduin to hope one of them could be saved. But he tries. He goes from body to body, trying to find one who still breathed, or summon up the desperation powerful enough to perhaps bring his men back from the gates of death--

He doesn't get the chance when a dagger comes for his throat. Anduin, with his holy Light already at his fingertips, deflects against the blade with a barrier that has his opponent disengaging from Its wrath with a terrible hiss and sizzle of flesh.

Anduin stares at the face of someone who was undoubtedly Forsaken. The masked assassin's glowing gold eyes burn into his, their skeletal hand readjusting the grip of a rusted but sharp blade still stained red. Another Forsaken appears from the rafters. Two more emerge from behind the throne Anduin has at his back, unsheathing their own weapons with their slow approach.

And most notable of all to Anduin, they all bore the emblem of the Banshee Queen. Those deep indigo tabards possessing the pale face of their undead leader surround Anduin as he his feet turn and twist in his steps, trying in vain not to keep either of them in his blind spot.

Two Forsaken lunge for him, and are met with another barrier of shimmering gold. Another tries to take him from behind, as he just manages to brandish a sweep of Light to burn at the edges of their leather armor. But it was still four against one, as the other to Anduin’s left lands a piercing blow to his side and tears a shout from his lungs. He reacts on instinct, pushing away at the successful assailant with the thick steel around his arms, another glowing spell taken to the metallic gold plate that pressures them into an escape.

There had been no warning, no alarms sounded at the city gates. This was not a Horde assault. It was a mission, and whether he, Taelia, or Jaina were the targets was not yet clear. But Anduin would not allow these monsters to reach them. He lashes out against his attack's blows again and again. His Light will not waver, if it means keeping as many safe as he still can.

* * *

Wrathion knew something was wrong even before he returned to the keep. One of his agents had tried contacting him; it was the smallest mental press of communication being initiated, before being cut abruptly before it even began. When the dragon tries to reach out to its source-- to any one of his agents-- he receives an empty void of silence.

What's more, the window to his borrowed chambers was still locked, and evidently no one was within to let him inside. He changes into his human form, rattling the lock for several desperate moments before the latch is forced to give way, and he slinks inside as quietly as he can. His enhanced vision scans the room to find it dark and empty of all occupants-- including the hatching. Wrathion swears under his breath.

His feet pad quickly but silently around the suite, looking for any sign of the creature or what might have happened to him. He sees his things still on the bed, and the weapons under the mattress and clothes in the closets undisturbed. The washroom was equally dark, but unchanged. It was in the social area he and Anduin had conversed in where Wrathion finds some semblance of what might have transpired:

Three Blacktalon agents were stewn across the floor. Cylia and Brielle were close to one another, having blatantly been disarmed and their daggers out of reach of their dead hands. No. Not dead-- Wrathion kneels down and puts his palm against the dwarf's neck, and then the other’s.

The two women still breathed, but the same could not be said about Moss. The undead's bony frame underneath Blacktalon leathers was unmistakable a few yards away... Even considering the fact Moss's body was now completely deprived of his head.

What's more, the blood gems on the two agents' foreheads were missing, and one can only assume the same following Moss's decapitation. Wrathion leaves them to scurry back into the main chamber as quickly as possible. He pulls on his boots and forfeits the effort of fastening his coat or wrapping cloth his head. What valuables he has are tucked in the pockets of his pants, including the thieving tools kept hidden away in the decorated metal band that usually kept his turban in place.

No traces of Left and Right could be found elsewhere in the suite. He could only hope the whelp was in their company. Making their escape without Wrathion would be a frustrating predicament, but necessary; the dragon had implemented that procedure long ago.

He slinks into the halls, calling upon his old training of how he blends himself into every shadow he can find. He would make a quick sweep of the keep for his guards or dragon, then find his own escape if no clues of his company's whereabouts can be found.

There was magic in the air. It was like an electric shock to Wrathion's draconic sensitivity, making the hairs on his arm stand on end and his steps falter. It was not caused by the persistent presence of his rune, but something stronger, distant. It came and went rapidly. It was the presence of a battle taking place.

Wrathion had no intention to interfere unless it was his bodyguards involved. The humans could take care of their own problems. But as he slinks further toward the throne room, where the source of the magic feud rages, he finds the many bodies of Alliance soldiers who had already tried in vain to defend against the onslaught. Only one remains standing. He had vengeful golden glow at his hands that matched the fairness of his hair.

King Anduin Wrynn was fending off the efforts of four rogues, and he was starting to buckle. Wrathion could see the steady staining of blood between the space of his breastplate and chest-guard, and a long, gnarly rend of a cut down his brow to his jawline. A blade would come at him, and he would respond with a holy barrier. The steel of a blade would collide with the steel of his armor, and Anduin would startle into taking a step back before trying to lash out with more of his magic. He was well on his way to backing himself into a corner, surrounded by an unrelenting enemy and the bodies of his men.

All thoughts of Wrathion's escape suddenly did not exist. He doesn't think when he sees another blade cut at the kings temple, and he shouts, "Anduin!"

It was a mistake. For a single moment, frozen in time, their eyes meet. Anduin's was full of righteous fury, fear, desperation. When he sees Wrathion, however, it is replaced with but one single emotion: confusion.

The distraction was his downfall. The moment comes flooding back into the present when two pommel-blows to the back of Anduin's head send him collapsing to the floor, leaving him motionless and his magic dispersed.

Now, it was only the attackers and Wrathion, who had made the mistake of making himself known. He stands in the threshold with nothing but simple clothing and boots, with a couple of small daggers in his belt that would have better odds if he had his rogues at his side.

His enemies were all Forsaken. More than that, Wrathion could see the recognition flash in their golden or pale eyes. They knew who he was. And they were going to make the most of the opportunity.

Smoke forms and Wrathion stands in the throne room as a dragon, breathing fire at the first assassin that comes for him and then bounds aside from the flames. Another charges for his flank; he sweeps his tail to send them skidding away across the stone with an echoing roar.

He curses himself for not yet being so grown. The advantage of his size was minimal; he could still feel the scrape of mortal weapons against his scales, and his bestial claws could only cut through so much leather. King Anduin had met his match, and Wrathion suspected if his bodyguards did not appear to aid him soon, so would he.

He doesn't have to hold his breath and anticipate his demise for long. Something pierces the soft underside of Wrathion’s belly from underneath him-- One of the undead had sunk their blade into him, and the pain of it was... surprisingly numb.

Wrathion feels his coordination start to slip away. The rogue slides out from underneath of him to give wide berth, as do the other three rogues who were now regarding him with an uneasy calm.

They watch Wrathion stumble on his paws. His vision was swimming. Poison, he realizes through a heavy mental fog. Didn't he have a high tolerance for poison? He's sure he did. Some part of him vaguely recalls training for it once or twice with an old mentor. He just can’t rightly remember their name.

He doesn't feel his body hit the ground, but he sees his world turn sideways upon impact. He watches the slow approach of the assassins' feet, hissing words he cannot comprehend to one another. There was blood all over the throne room floor. From the slain guards, yes. From Anduin too. The human was lying just out of reach of him. Wrathion tried to be concerned that he was not moving, but his body nor his voice held any recollection on how to reach out to the king.

His eyes close without his command to. Then the world goes black, and Wrathion is too lost in its depths before he has the chance to fight it.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrathion reflects on a past life in Pandaria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody, it's time for a good ol' fashioned MoP flashback chapter! I hope you like a creamy center of fluff, because this is going to be my last update for a couple+ weeks while I'm moving across the entire US of A. I'm super tired and SUPER excited!!
> 
> Thank you again for likes/comments/etc., I roll around with my phone can cry every time. ;wwwwww;

Wrathion's concentration was slipping further and further away with the ongoing uproar of noise around him. The beating of rain against the tavern roof had chased guests inside to partake in a warm meal. Spoons click against bowls, drunken words follow ceaseless laughter, and underneath all of _that_, there was a peculiar noise from the boards above the dragon’s head that he could somehow still make out among the busyness. He soon recognizes the source to be Anduin's room, but what the prince was doing up there was well beyond him.

The innkeeper must have noticed it too. There’s a tray of food in Tong’s hands as he pads worriedly up the stairs, while Wrathion pretends to look over the stone mogu tablet in front of him. He had long since given up on making sense of the words with all the distraction, choosing instead to watch the pandaren out of the corner of his eye until his round form disappears from the last step.

Wrathion continues to strain an ear to listen to the boards above. The noises from Anduin's room had been muffled and inconsistent thus far, but they cease entirely when Tong knocks on his door. He hears the pandaren stop, then resume his steps in a haste that gave the dragon the smallest bout of alarm. Did Tong find something the matter in there? Maybe the prince had a nasty fall?

No one in the common area would notice if Wrathion left. The room was either full of intoxicated patrons or his own Blacktalons, and the agents would not make any move to question him. He stands unhurriedly, setting the tablet aside with his other treasures from the Isle of Thunder expedition. Two of his agents immediately fill in to stand guard over the hoard. Good, good. Then, Wrathion shifts into his dragon form, and flaps his way over the banister into the hallway of guest chambers above.

The door to Anduin's inn room was closed. Silently lowering his whelp body to the floor, Wrathion creeps closer with one paw at a time to the crack underneath. Running a spy organization made him a nosy person. So what? The Black Prince made it his business to know things, and that included knowing if the Prince of Stormwind had re-injured himself enough to forfeit tomorrow's game of Jihui.

When he lowers his head to peek one red eye under the door, the last thing he expected to find was Anduin Wrynn with his face in his hands, emitting that same foreign sound Wrathion came to realize was _crying_.

The two princes had known each other for a whole summer since Prince Anduin Wrynn came seeking the mysteries of the Veiled Stair. He was an optimistic thing, bright-eyed even despite the horrible injuries he had endured in this land. He had been separated from his shipwrecked crew and captured by the Horde, and had lost the strength in most of his muscles, as well as his entire right leg, to stopping Garrosh Hellscream from releasing the ancient power of the Divine Bell on the world. He had to endure painful physical therapy as well as insults from Wrathion's loyalist orc champions, along with the brutal strain of fulfilling simple every day tasks. But even in spite of these hardships, not once had Wrathion ever seen Anduin cry.

And yet here the prince was, trying and failing to fight his sobbing back. Tong had one arm around his frame. Anduin soon looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "I couldn't save it," Wrathion hears him choke out. "I tried, and I couldn't-- I couldn't. I'm so sorry. Light, Tong, I'm _so sorry._"

The old innkeeper shhh's the prince, running a paw up and down his back in quick, comforting strokes. It just seems to make Anduin cry more, but he is not loud enough to drown out Tong's consoling words. "You cannot blame the actions of one individual on yourself, Prince Anduin. There is nothing any of us could have done."

Anduin chokes on another sob. "But the Vale," he cries. "The Vale is _gone_. It's all my _fault._"

Wrathion's fins lower to the back of his skull. The Vale of Eternal Blossoms. It was once the jewel of Pandaria, and the foreign forces had flocked to it for its healing properties and the abandoned temples to set up their bases. But their curiosity had made it a vulnerable target for the Sha to manifest in their deepest despairs, and then Hellscream... well. Indeed, it was the worst tragedy the forces of Azeroth had inflicted on this new land yet.

And Anduin had just learned of its destruction, as had many of those outside the valley. His sobs become muffled in Tong's shirt, as the man continues to patiently let the tears soak through his apron. "You shouldn't think you have to burden the blame all on your own, young Prince," he says again. "We owe you much more than you may know. If not for you, I am certain that the destruction of our home would have come much, much sooner upon us.”

Almost childishly, Anduin shakes his head, his face still hidden away. Tong only chuckles fondly. "Because of you, many in Pandaria have come to open their hearts again to the good intentions of your people. Myself included. Whether Horde or Alliance, we see that they do not all follow the path of your war. You have shown us there is still good to be found in the land you come from. That there is... light, that we can find and trust in you to still help set things right."

The old innkeeper was smiling proudly at himself. The Light analogy was purely for Anduin's benefit, and Wrathion sees it take affect. The human lifts his head tentatively, soaking the sleeve of his tunic as he dries his face. If Wrathion didn't know any better, he almost looked bashful. "That... that's not just because of me."

"But it is," Tong counters gently. A playful gesture to tousle Anduin's hair ends up being a giant paw encasing his entire head, and the prince breathes a laugh that is still wet around the edges from his sobbing. "Pandaria owes you the gratitude of destroying the Divine Bell... saving the Golden Lotus... And being my most favorite guest in my humble home. Please know, the honor I have in serving you has nothing to do with your crown."

Anduin ducks his head away from the teasing paw with a quivering smile. A few more tears spill free, but Anduin is steadier when he wipes them away. He nods. "Thank you, Tong. And, um... For the food."

Tong smiles and stands. The food in question had been set on the bedside table, and he's insistent when he shoves a bowl of steamed crab dumplings in the human’s hands. "A full belly will take your mind off of things. And should your doubts plague you further... you know where to find me."

The conversation was over, and Wrathion starts to scramble back into flight before the man can reach the door to discover him. He flaps in a frenzy back into the rafters, over the banister, and lands in a sudden plume of smoke in his human form, startling his rogues as he casually picks up a random mogu trinket like he had never left. Tong returns to post behind the bar table, greeted by the cheers of customers waving their coin for more brew nonethewiser.

Soon, the aroma of alcohol would become overbearing enough to give Wrathion the excuse to properly ascend the stairs to the floor of inn rooms in about a half hour's time in his human form. That was certainly enough of a gap not to seem overly suspicious of his eavesdropping. Plus, Anduin had not left his room all day. _That_ was enough clause for some friendly concern. Yes.

His feet take him to Anduin's door where he pauses to listen. There were no more sounds of the human’s crying. Taking it as his chance to perhaps indulge in minimally-awkward conversation, the dragon raps his knuckles on the bamboo and calls out politely, "Prince Anduin? Might we have words?"

There isn't an immediate response, but one comes before Wrathion can knock a second time. "Come in."

Wrathion does. He continues to act polite and absolutely not dubious whatsoever, closing the door behind him and taking a few welcomed steps into the room. Across the way was Anduin, still sitting on the edge of his bed in his robes and Stormwind tabard. His face is devoid of all signs of his earlier bawling, save for the dark circles under his eyes. His short hair and clothes were tasseled as if he might have decided to lay down after Tong’s leave.

The food was also only half touched. That was certainly an oddity to Wrathion; he’s watched the prince down four bowls of pho in a whole sitting once and still have enough room for peach pie. He was a behemoth of a growing teenager.

Wrathion pretends to only just notice the tray is there, exclaiming in mock offense, "Are those red bean buns? Tong told me he'd taken them off the menu when I asked last week. That man has it out for me, I swear by it."

It gladdens Wrathion to see Anduin smile. But there's a knowing to it that shatters the dragons façade. "I know you heard us talking," he says.

Wrathion falters. "– I certainly did not. Who is we?"

"It's okay." Anduin scoots closer to the headboard. It leaves Wrathion a place to sit at his side, and puts the human prince closer to the cold meal he begins eating again. "Sometimes I hear you talk to your champions downstairs. The floorboards aren’t that thick."

"What--" Wrathion starts to sputter, and this time, Anduin's exhausted smile is more genuinely amused. "How dare-- Some of those discussions are _private_."

Infuriatingly, Anduin just shrugs at him. Then he offers a bun.

Wrathion glares, huffing and puffing, and then... he takes the offer and sits. He's still gruffing when he sinks he teeth into the bean filling.

"Sorry," Anduin says as they eat together. He shrinks a little more into himself. "I shouldn't be moping up here. It's dangerous to let despair manifest, now more than ever."

"Or else you'll conjure a Sha from it?" Wrathion asks. "Prince Anduin, please. Tong's establishment is bursting to the brim with drunken merriment almost all hours of the day. I seriously doubt your flubbering will manifest anything greater than the underside of my boot can extinguish."

It wasn't the right thing to say, and Wrathion found himself regretting it almost instantly. Anduin looks away, leaving the other prince to gripe for a release from the hurt.

"What I mean to say is, it's alright to... 'mope', as you put it,” he says. “I can only assume grief and mourning is natural for you."

Anduin quirks a brow. "Is it not natural for you?"

"I dare say that it is not," Wrathion says as he pilfers another one of the human’s neglected bean buns. "Otherwise I would get nothing done if I had to take the time to give my condolences to every soldier lost or dragon slain."

"Exercising empathy will gain you the favor of your expendable followers, Black Prince Wrathion," Anduin points out.

"Ah, but empathy is not a virtue exercised by our enemies, young prince. We cannot afford to fall behind for the sake of comforting a few broken-- Hey!"

The bun was swiped right out of Wrathion's claws, leaving the dragon no time to steal it back before Anduin takes it upon himself to stuff as much of it into his mouth as he could possibly fit, and somehow look triumphant while ridiculously chipmunk-faced.

Of course, it left him with the struggle of properly chewing it, and Wrathion's betrayal is quickly forgotten in a peel of laughter. Anduin's own joins him when he consumes enough not to pose a choking hazard for himself.

The meal is soon finished in its entirety. Wrathion has his hand in the door to give Anduin back his privacy when the prince speaks up to him from the bed, giving the dragon pause. "For what the accidental eavesdropping is worth," he says with a sincere smile, "I look froward to seeing your assault on the Throne of Thunder succeed, Black Prince Wrathion. Good night."

* * *

Something large was weighing Wrathion down. His whole body feels it's made of stone, like he's floating in a heavy liquid of only half-consciousness. But any attempt of lifting his head is met with some kind of resistance. He hears something heavy fall beside him. Then his awareness fades out again.

* * *

Their flight across the ocean was quite unnerving, and Wrathion was thankful when he and his bodyguards finally land on the island. The pandarens’ preference for travel by kite was one he had been determined to steer away from. There were no saddles and no guardrails; it was as unnatural as the cloud serpents that found flight without wings.

But he, Left and Right let their feet hit the isle sands, and the prince is pleasantly surprised to find Anduin Wynn crossing the turf to greet them. "You made it!"

"So we did," Wrathion replies, his voice uneven as walks uncertainty across the wet terrain. "I take it this is where you've been hiding to wait out your father's temper?"

Anduin laughs. "Something like that. I was actually on my way to seeing Halfhill for the first time when I was given an invitation here.”

Wrathion frowns. "As I was given. I must admit, I was intrigued by the notion of the Four Celestials beating upon another defenseless soul for a change."

From beside him, Anduin rolls his eyes. The beach reveals a cobblestone path through a luscious forest, soon opening the way to an ancient tournament grounds resting in the very center of the desolate island.

The Timeless Isle, this place was called. It was meant to host a trial of the Four Celestials Yu'lon, Chi-ji, Xuen, and Niuzao, who had decided to pass their judgment on any one of Azeroth's heroes brave enough to challenge them. There were no straggle of adventurers around quite yet however, the place instead buzzing with the development of vendors preparing their wares for the coming days of sportsmanship. Anduin has his own reserved spot to spectate from, resting right on the corner where the path ends to the arena's entrance, protected from sun or collateral damage by an awning of blue and gold. Inside the space was a table with two chairs and the prince's cane, and two royal guards that Left and Right soon take their places beside.

But the two princes did not stop to rest within. The two of them press forward instead to the very edge of the awaiting arena, where the four Celestials, gathered in their gargantuan forms in each corner of the stone pit, idling within. It surprises Wrathion to see them immediately take notice of his and Anduin’s arrival. It was Chi-ji who turns his giant crane head to the two of them first, dipping his brow low in greeting.

“It is wonderful to see you again, Prince Anduin,” the Red Crane says, his ethereal voice swimming to them like a patient stream. “Welcome, to the Celestial Tournament.”

From beside the dragon, Anduin bows his head in turn. “It’s an honor to be here, Great Crane,” he says in all earnest.

Chi-ji’s expression could not change much with a beak, but Wrathion could hear a smile in his tone. “It is an honor to have the Hero of Pandaria in attendance to our trials. Without you, our gathering would not be complete without my attendance. I would be lost in despair-- the very same I am heartened to feel presently easing away from your spirit.”

There is hesitation that rests clearly on Anduin’s face. And then a slow, grateful smile. Wrathion was nearly to comment, but the Crane’s attention turns to him next. “And it is an honor to see the son of the Earth Warder once more. Welcome, Black Prince Wrathion.”

It was not so becoming for Wrathion to bow as readily as Prince Anduin would. But he nods deeply, clearing his throat. “Yes. I thank you as well, for the privilege of our spectation here.”

From behind Chi-Ji comes a loud, earthly rumble. Niuzao the Black Ox crosses the great pit to join in conversing with the two princes, his equally-impressive form dwarfing the humanoids greatly and making Wrathion frown deeply in dawning exasperation. “An honor it is indeed. Tell us, Son of Deathwing: have you been meditating upon the wisdom we imparted on you in our time together?”

Wrathion would not allow himself to fluster, but there was still a sort of huff when he catches Anduin’s amused glance. “-- I have, numerous times. Your teachings have left a place in my heart almost as big as the bruises left on my buttocks.”

Niuzao’s laughter was much fuller this time, almost seeming to fill the entire isle with its sound. Anduin was stifling his own snickering behind a hand. Wrathion elbows him in the side, receiving no returned rebuttal in the presence of their hosts.

“We hope our lessons will continue to inspire you on your journey,” the Red Crane speaks up once again, “ as we must continue our preparations. Take care, Prince Anduin Wrynn, Prince Wrathion.”

Wrathion watches in bewilderment as Chi-Ji’s head bows a second time, much lower than his first initial greeting. So much so that the feathered crest of his brow nearly touches Anduin’s, and the dragon has to step aside. He swears he sees the human blush fiercely, but bows hurriedly again in reply when the Crane departs. It would be a wonderful opportunity to tease, if only Wrathion had not been left so haughty by the jestings of the Ox.

They soon leave to return to Anduin’s small setup to retrieve the human’s cane, where Left and Right have also settled a few of Wrathion’s travel belongings. The two princes and their entourage were definitely the odd ones out among the many Pandaria natives who flocked here to set up shop, but there was one individual who stands out just as much as they did: a sin'dorei man dressed in golden robes that matches the decadence of his hair, who approaches the two with a smile. "Good day, royal princes. Actually, I would say 'good morning', but no one else here would have a way of knowing that."

Wrathion could feel his magical senses become alert the second the stranger came into view. He frowns at the elf. "Greetings. And you are...?"

"Allow me to introduce myself: I am Kairozdormu-- or Kairoz, please." He sweeps into a deep bow. "I am the one who orchestrated the invitation to you, and all the rest of the visiting champions across Pandaria with the help of the dragon Chronormu, on the behalf of the bronze dragonflight. It is an honor to meet you both."

Wrathion's brows rise into his turban. Out of all the dragonflights he had reached out to over the years, the Bronze were the most reluctant to have council with him-- not including the red dragonflight, but that was a given.

"What is this place?" Anduin asks from between the two dragons.

"A pandaren enigma, my young prince," Kairoz announced with tempered glee. His golden eyes sparkle. "A mystery in the mists!"

“I feel like I’ve been here for hours, and yet the sun hasn’t moved,” Anduin muses.  
  
“Exactly. Time is frozen in perpetuity. Cause and effect-- all but rendered meaningless. Perhaps it is related to the mists? Or the power that was unreleased in the sundering ten thousand years ago? Oh… We must investigate.”

The prince frowns. “Is it… dangerous?”

“Indeed,” Kairoz replies. “This place overturns our very notion of time, and how it shapes the universe. Stranded on this island you will find the most dangerous creatures in all of Pandaria. Explore if you must, Prince Anduin. But be cautious.”

Anduin hums thoughtfully to himself. Wrathion could swear that when their eyes meet, the human’s own held mischief. He did not know whether to be shocked, or enabled by it.

"My flight has been interested in this area for many, many years," Kairoz continues, his voice no longer grave with his previous warnings. "But the mists were perilous to even a great dragon, and now, the Celestials’ tournament has granted us a once in a lifetime opportunity to study its origins. Isn't it marvelous? The Emperor of Pandaria resides here as a spirit, knowing full well his fate and his advisors’, and to be able to speak to them about their influence of the living things that reside here--..."

Kairoz carries on excitedly about the many traits of the land around them, but Wrathion is only half-listening as he studies the dragon speaking to them. The man's elven appearance was thin and nonthreatening, and the prince has a feeling that he was quite aloof. It would explain why he and Chromie would be expedition partners: Like her, Kairoz's less-than-impressive appearance concealed powerful Bronze magic Wrathion could feel alight in the air around the man. He had come to this Isle alone because he was capable, and very dangerous to any perils that might cross his path.

“It is you who I am most interested in speaking to in particular, Wrathion,” Kairoz says in an easy slip into a new topic. Whether aloof or powerful, his offer spoke of genuine friendliness. “Perhaps you could explore this isle for yourselves, before I steal your free time before the tournament is to begin?”

That certainly was an idea. It would be a shame not to be able to catch a glimpse of the natural beauty of the land before thrill-seeking adventurers came stomping all over it. “I think the Prince of Stormwind and I will do just that. Thank you kindly, Kairoz.”

The bronze dragon smiled at them both. Anduin imparts his goodbyes as well, but the two of them can only take about two steps away from their sitting arrangement before one of the royal guards speaks up. “Your Highness...”

Oh, of course. They didn’t want to chase Anduin down from another adventure, but did not want to offend him by giving orders, either. The prince smiles apologetically back at them, but it is Wrathion who speaks up first. “Do not worry. We will be back before the sun goes down.”

No one at the tent appreciated the joke nearly as much Wrathion did. The two armor-clad humans shoot him distrusting looks, soon being barred by Left and Right’s step forward in their line of sight. Anduin takes his cane in his hand, giving his guards a promise of his safety and a short trip of sight-seeing. Wrathion does not give the same heed of his departure. They take off at a leisurely pace across the stones and into the grass of thin bamboo forests.

Then from there, it doesn't take long for him and Anduin to suddenly break into a sprint, laughing maniacally like school boys as they leave the presence of Anduin's bodyguards behind. The two princes set off across the edge of the coast with no clear destination in mind. They marvel at everything grand and small, like the weird fruits that held no trace of rot, or the ghostly pandaren fisherman Anduin strikes up a conversation with about the strange creatures in the water. Wrathion spies the unmistakable sign of a yaungol settlement far up the cliff-side to the west and races toward it in his whelp form. By the time Anduin had caught up on the cobblestone path however, the dragon was being chased out by many angry, blaze-burning projectiles. Anduin laughs at him the whole way through their escape.

There was so much to see in just one day-- or whatever counted as a day on this island-- and the two of them soon have to rest for the human's aching injuries in what was a presumed-hour later. With the sun ever high in the sky above them, they seek shelter under a tree on a hill, devoid of any pesky sprites to pull on their clothing.

Wrathion flies back to the tournament grounds to fetch lunch from a vendor, bringing back two bowls of noodles in a basket for him and Anduin to gorge upon. Wrathion changes back into his human form upon arrival, and they enjoy their meal together with their feet hanging over the rocky edge that overlooks the entire expanse of the arena.

Anduin sighs the trademark sound of indulging in good, Pandaren food. His gaze fixes on the world below them. "This place is amazing," he says.

Wrathion can only hum back, too occupied with the endless stream of noodles being guided into his mouth by chopsticks. A dragon's appetite was flexible enough to be satisfied with the raw meat of a flesh kill, but oh, Wrathion doesn't doubt for a _minute_ that he would trade that lifestyle away for a lifetime of authentic Pandaren cuisine.

Anduin must agree in his own human way, as he too digs back into his meal until the bowl is empty and the broth drank. He lays back in the grass with Wrathion soon joining him.

Wrathion realizes as they relax, almost as an afterthought, that it is not just a dragon’s diet he wouldn’t mind giving up if he had the choice. It had taken him a while to realize it, but his upbringing thus far has been incredibly more human than beast-- An intelligent beast, of course; but not a bipedal one who adorned clothing or ran a rogue operation with mortals. The red dragonflight and the Titans had given him unlimited knowledge of Azeroth’s dragons to suit his needs as a rapidly-maturing specimen. That artificially-constructed brain also gave him limitless knowledge of the other lifeforms among Azeroth, too. Human, dwarf, elf, troll, tauren…

His whelp form was best suited for quick travel, or stealth in small places. But ever since his hatching, Wrathion could not dismiss the fact he was much more comfortable appearing like the humanoids he employed, and he quite enjoyed speaking their language or operating with material possessions.

Maybe he would change his mind when he is a drake. Maybe, he can just not think about it, and instead enjoy the company of a cool breeze and the human prince beside him.

The human prince who has rolled on his side to face Wrathion, in fact, his chin in his hand and a faraway look on his face that the dragon came to recognize was one of deep thought. He was not actually looking at Wrathion until the Black Prince speaks up to him. “You seem to be faring better than the last we spoke.”

Anduin blinks out of his thoughts, surprised. Then he gives a barely-there smile. “Am I? I suppose so.

“I’m going to be in Orgrimmar soon,” he says after a minute, his pensive face turning grave now. Wrathion’s brows raise in surprise. “They’ve cornered the Kro’kron forces there after rescuing the Shado Pan from the temple. I… I did not even have to ask to be present for when the leaders confront Garrosh. My father wants me there. He thinks I deserve to see the execution.”

It did not surprise the dragon that Anduin would not be content with that reasoning. Even after an attempt on his own life, Prince Anduin Llane Wrynn will always be determined to find a solution that did not lead to a death sentence. Whether or not his voice will be heard among the leaders of the Alliance and the Horde was an entirely different story. He knows this, and so does Wrathion.

Anduin was starting to look crestfallen again, so Wrathion steals his attention by rolling his wrist in the air with a miffed sigh. “Is that it, then? I do not get an invitation to the siege as well?”

“What?” Anduin actually laughs. Wrathion grins a toothy smile at him. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” the dragon continues to pry.

“You know why.”

Ah, that was true. Wrathion did know why: He’d be a distraction from the forces trying to win his favor. Even still he did not know if the Horde would rise up from the ashes to overshadow the Alliance, and this execution of Garrosh Hellscream raised quite the gamble for that favor. How would the Warchief die? Who would follow him? What comes next?

Wrathion just blows a raspberry with his lips. “It does not matter, then. I will receive reports one way or another through my agents. Perhaps when you and I next cross paths, I will have claimed the champion’s title from your boorish friend the Celestials.”

For the second time today, Anduin Wrynn’s laughter was full and genuine. It was indignant of Wrathion to cause it by recounts of his own defeat, and yet… he was glad for it. If the prince really was to leave for the hellfire and brimstone of Orgrimmar’s assault, Wrathion might daresay he would miss him.

The laughter soon dies down naturally, and the two of them are left in quiet once more. A breeze ruffles the loose cloth of Wrathion’s turban. Anduin was still on his side, facing the dragon still lying prone in the grass. When their eyes meet, there was a pensiveness to Anduin Wrynn’s that was distinctly different from the melancholy that lingered just minutes ago. Wrathion almost wants to ask, but somehow finds himself coming to the conclusion that words were unnecessary now.

They were alone without guard or foe. It was a rare thing; even when enjoying a game of Jihui together in the privacy of one room or the other’s, there was always the sense of being watched in a mountain crawling with rogue agents. Here though, up on the hilltop overlooking the entire expanse of the isle, the solitude was so suddenly so vast that it felt like they could be swallowed by the very cloudless sky above their heads.

Anduin retracts his legs from the hanging ledge. He did not move far but a few inches closer by the pull of his elbows atop the grass. So near each other, with Anduin’s face still calculative and the dragon's shaded by his shadow, it occurs to Wrathion so suddenly that he thinks the prince might be preparing to kiss him.

And he has had such thoughts about it before. It was always the stray inkling he had to expel immediately-- his head was too full of plans and telepathic communication to squeeze in a few boyish fantasies for someone to stumble upon-- but Wrathion did very much think he would enjoy it if the Prince of Stormwind kissed him. With the way Anduin starts to support himself on one arm, and Wrathion’s gloved hand reaching out to take hold of his sleeve from below him, it would seem they were acting on mutual desire, curiosity, a longing of things that have always festered but never quite had this endless sea of freedom to explore inside of. Wrathion has that urge again that he should say something. More powerful is the urge and the want that Anduin would conceal those words with his lips, and there would be no need for words ever again, only kissing and only the pale hand that touches the softness of the beard on the dragon's chin...

Suddenly, a large crash echoes through the isle. The scare nearly has the two princes’ heads colliding in their start, and they share only the briefest glance before scrambling to their feet to investigate.

A hozen and pandaren chef argue loudly with one another over a giant spilled pot of food among the row of prepping vendors. A small crowd was forming to assist in cleaning, and to step in between the two’s angry words before a fight can break out.

Wrathion feels dizzy before he reminds himself to breathe. Likewise, the human beside him appears to be also getting his bearings, avoiding the dragon’s gaze as he crouches in the grass to retrieve their empty bowls.

Whatever moment they had was surely gone before it could be given a name. And Wrathion, a creature who did not dwell on things, assists Anduin’s rise back to his feet by handing him his cane. “Shall we continue our venture?" he offers, his voice schooled beyond recognition. "I think I heard one of the spirits spin a yarn about glowing caverns just below us...”

He sees it in Anduin’s eyes: A shared disappointment that neither was keen to address. It’s gone as quickly as it had come, and the human smiles. “The caverns guarded by those rock and crystal giants?”

“The very same,” Wrathion says with a beaming look.

Anduin hums, tapping his fingers on the head of his cane. “That sounds quite like the kind of dangerous creatures our friend Kairoz warned us about, Black Prince Wrathion.”

Which was all the convincing either prince needed. They explore the Timeless Isle together for the remainder of the endless day, blissfully deprived of any supervision for their recklessness. Sometimes Wrathion gives Anduin his assistance to help in the trek through uncertain terrain or around perilous corners. And he swears, in those brief moments their hands are held with fingers intertwined, that the quickened pulse in Anduin’s wrist matches the unspoken rush of appreciation beating through the dragon’s veins.

* * *

When Wrathion opens his eyes, his vision swims with the exhaustion of the poison’s fading effects. How long he was unconscious, he cannot be sure. He tries to move his head again, only to be reminded of the weight bearing down on his neck crushing the wind air out of his windpipe. Chains rattle with the futile effort. He squeezes his red eyes shut.

When they open slowly again, clarity gradually starts to return to his sight. And the first thing he sees is Anduin Wrynn, propped unconscious in the corner with his feet and wrists bound by shackles. He had been stripped of his armor and left in clothes stained by his injuries. His long hair was matted to the wounds in his brow and on his cheek. Something makes the cage they are in bounce the two occupants, but the human stirs with only the slightest noise before going still again.

They were traveling. But where, and by whom, Wrathion has not the strength to recall. He only sees Anduin-- and the last thing he sees is Anduin-- before falling back into the blackness of his weakened state.

It hurt to move. The poison had worn away, but whatever mechanism was keeping Wrathion in place in his draconic form was surely crushing him. He has to breathe slowly, and even it was a feat not without consequence of the shackles’ pressure.

Wherever they are, and wherever they were going… Wrathion can only distantly hope that the whelp still lives.


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Anduin and the dragon Wrathion must be returned to Stormwind fast, before the war between the Alliance and Horde escalates at a deadly cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOWIE IT'S SURE BEEN A FEW MONTHS HUH. I've been getting so many nice comments since the 8.3 cinematic dropped that I finally pushed myself into wrapping up the draft I've had sitting around for........ a while. Thank you for enjoying my work, I'm just so busy with my new job and limited sleep schedule. ;w;
> 
> I don't plan on abandoning this fic, but at this point of the BFA story, I would advise to still consider this around the time of ~8.2.5. Unless you want this to completely replace BFA canon, because that's what me and my friends do, then have at it. Thank you again, enjoy!!

Anduin wakes with a start as the wheels rock underneath of him. His shoulder collides with the iron bars behind him, and he winces. He can feel a wound there, along with several others all across his person, helping him in hazily recalling how he ended up with them in the first place.

Slowly, his eyes blink open. Small beams of light that escape through the spaces of crudely-nailed boards illuminate the expanse of the cage he was in. Naturally, Anduin observes, they would be placed there to prevent anyone from spying someone making off with the High King of the Alliance. And he wasn’t his captors’ only prize.

Wrathion lies in the corner adjacent to him, his impressive dragon form forced into submission by the giant rusted shackle around his neck. The king could barely make out the glow of his red eyes, open to mere slits that regard Anduin wearily.

For all of their banter the past few days, Anduin honestly expected a greeting, or a, “funny to see you here” from Wrathion. But it isn’t long before another bump from the road sends the cage jostling, and the dragon's eyes quickly close. The shackle around him could only be hurting him-- it was as massive as the cage that allowed the two of them so much room to occupy. Had it been specifically designed for dragons? The Forsaken’s enslavement of mountain ettin?

Whatever the case may be, Anduin cannot reach Wrathion before he notes the shackles around his own hands and ankles. His shirt was bloodstained, and he feels the stickiness of more blood that had his long bangs dried to the side of his face. He had been ambushed. His guards were slain. And not only that, but Wrathion had been discovered and captured along with him.

A bitter determination seizes in Anduin’s grip. The Light begins forming in his hand, as he shuffles to stretch bound arms and legs far out in front of himself. They will not getting away with this that easily.

* * *

The morning is deathly quiet, save for the sound of bodies being removed from the throne room, and Genn’s furious growls. Jaina stands off to the side with Taelia beside her, the both of them watching the worgen inspect the crimson pool in the middle of the floor with his heightened sense of smell. There was so much of it, and it had been smeared across the stone as if someone had been dragged.

“It’s Anduin’s,” Genn confirms their worst fears with another snarl. Jaina shuts and squeezes her eyes tight. “Not enough to kill the lad. But perhaps only enough to ensure he isn't killed _here_.”

“I don’t understand,” Taelia stammers. Like Jaina, she had rushed out of her room with a coat thrown over her nightclothes. Unlike Jaina, however, Taelia had the sense to bring a giant sword with her. “I didn’t hear a thing until I thought I heard Anduin yelling, but he was nowehere to be found when I ran here. How could this have happened?”

Genn’s bestial face sneers. “I’ll tell you how. This place reeks of undead. And of dragon fire.”

Jaina’s eyes snap open. The other two are too occupied with the debris to pay her mind as she stares into the far wall. The feelings of white-hot fury and cold numbness fight for control over her heart.

Anduin had told her about Wrathion’s sudden appearance. The dragon had come to him and his advisors in broad daylight, seemingly non-hostile, but had made his escape to Karazhan to never be seen again soon after. The Black Prince had been elusive since escaping Pandaria, motives unknown except for his one last favor to the Horde--

Is this what Wrathion was capable of? Hurting, and kidnapping his old friend alongside Sylvanas’s forces?

The distant sound of sobbing suddenly breaks Jaina out of her racing thoughts. A townswoman weeps over the body of a fallen guard and her fallen husband, two more guards solemnly placing a heavy sheet to obscure him after. Jaina watches Taelia and Genn’s faces fall, grief-stricken, the latter changing out of his worgen form and back into his human one. Wordlessly, the three of them leave the room to the gardens in the next chamber over.

It’s Genn who breaks the silence first under the shelter of trees, his face deadly grave even without the fanged maw. “I think we all know that we can’t keep this a secret,” he says. “The king is missing, and only one Horde force is bold enough to go against the allegiance we’ve made with the sin’dorei and the tauren. This… _This_ is an act of the highest treason.”

The words sink in under the heavy silence. Taelia looks away, occupied with thumbing at a loose thread in her sleeve. Jaina hasn’t the same luxury; the worgen’s piercing eyes are right on her.

She hasn’t said a word since discovering the throne room scene. Genn knows she knows something. That, or he expects her unwavering loyalty when it comes to laying siege against the Forsaken... When it comes to saving Anduin.

Jaina takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly from her nose. But out of the corner of her eye, she catches a flash of red and gold.

She doesn’t dare let her adverted attention linger long enough for Genn to notice. In the highest corner of the rafters, a sin’dorei woman with long blonde hair and fel-tipped daggers watches the trio convene. Her eyes are on Jaina, their gazes locking.

Valeera nods at her. Then she falls into the corridor beyond, melding into the shadows in the blink of Jaina’s eye.

Jaina nods back, only seemingly to Genn. That white-hot fury finally triumphs within her. “I think I know the dragon responsible.”

* * *

How long they had been traveling, Anduin can’t say. There was no need for their undead captors to rest, so Anduin knew not to expect stops or food. He tries speaking to them, from civil questioning to loud demands for answers, only to be met with silence at every turn.

The lack of conversation had at least given Anduin time to work. The Light was used to soothe the worst of his throbbing injuries. Wrathion had then watched him, half-conscious but incredulous, as the king struggled and twisted his legs against the bars until his prosthetic came loose, and Anduin was able to slip his boot and shackle away without harm. One manacle remained on his left ankle and both shackles still around his wrists, but the awkward reattachment of one leg gave him all the freedom he needed to pace about.

Mobility was giving him little reassurance, however. Wrathion still would not speak to Anduin either, and against his better judgment, Anduin’s worries for the iron crushing the dragon’s airways were dire. In truth, he realizes he’s never once seen the dragon so helpless before. It was as foreign a concept to Anduin as everything else Wrathion had bestowed upon him since his years-long absence.

A change to their silent traveling came with nightfall. The cage was dark, and Anduin had returned to seating himself in the corner across from Wrathion and where he knew the rogues were steering the cart (the wagon? The carriage?) on the other side. The cage lurches forward with a sudden stop. Anduin catches himself on his elbows on the floor, and he hears Wrathion hiss softly in pain with the screech of the metal band against the wood and iron.

The whole vehicle was stopping. A sweat breaks out against Anduin’s brow, but he sits up straight, his eyes hardening on the latched, wood-concealed doors ahead of him. He waits for the rogues to open it, to drag him and Wrathion out into the storm that’s been chilling their confines for the last handful of hours.

… but the door never opens. The king hears snow crunch under footfalls, and the hissing of the Forsaken speaking to one another. Their feet would stop, then move, then stop again as the undead speak in aggravation to one another. Something was wrong. Anduin could not see anything between the spaces of the wood planks he tries peering through. He looks over his shoulder back at Wrathion, who looks equally concerned back at him beneath the dim glow of his eyes.

Just then, the sound of splitting wood cracks loudly over Anduin’s head. He yells in shock as large splinters follow him to the floor. The sound happens again, this time embedding a crossbow bolt in the space in the wall where his face had been just seconds ago.

The rogues outside are up in arms immediately. The sound of battle surrounds the cart on all sides, sometimes with bodies or weapons colliding with the cage the two captors reside in. Anduin doesn't dare try getting close to the walls again, and he sees Wrathion lift a wing between himself and the bars as well. The king was spring-loaded in anxiety. Either this was a rescue, or someone had caught a whiff of the precious cargo to claim for themselves.

Anduin gets his answer quickly enough to nearly make his heart stop. The sound of chains being broken jostles the cage door, swinging open with a crash, to the sight of Right with two daggers in her hands.

She looks at Anduin, briefly assessing his conscious state as satisfactory. It’s all she needs before her attention falls solely on the dragon next to him. She wastes no time climbing in and dropping on her knees by Wrathion’s head, daggers sheathed and rogue instruments being quickly drawn to get to work on the clasp around his neck.

Anduin doesn’t care to remind her that he’s still shackled, too. He only gets up quickly, looking between Right and the opening to freedom. “What’s going on?” he exclaims.

“No time,” she says. Wrathion’s eyes were closed again, the scaled ridges around his eyes pinched in discomfort as Right works. “We’re getting both of you out of here.”

Well, Anduin wasn’t going to argue with that plan. With no further instruction from Right, he runs quickly to the opening of the cage, leaping cautiously into the snow with his bound wrists held out in front of himself. It was difficult to take in the scene with the black sky and whipping snow, but what he finds is enough to bring a wave of relief over him. And total shock.

Left was taking on two Forsaken rogues, meeting them with her blade until she could regain enough ground to fire her crossbow. One shot was deadly enough to bring one of the undead down and motionless into the brush off the side of the road. The other came for her with a guttural battle cry, forcing them back into a maneuvering dance of steel.

To the other side of the cart was another one of Anduin’s allies-- but she was no Blacktalon agent. Standing out amidst the snowstorm in her red leathers was none other than Vaeelera, going head-to-head with another Forsaken trying to corner her against the skeletal horses that were whinnying uncomfortably in the middle of the battlefield. One tried to kick her, only for the elf to whirl and sidestep for the hoof to meet the ribs of the Forsaken instead. She flashes Anduin a grin, a split-second thing before falling back into the fight. 

The king can only stare in disbelief. He hadn’t a clue of where to go or what to do; not with his hands bound and the storm disorienting him. His indecision would be his undoing-- When the whipping snow conceals his sight as well as his hearing, making him unable to catch the sound of metal being drawn behind his neck until it is too late, and he whirls around with the blade nicking deep into his skin--

Only for the undead assailant to be blasted away by a roaring jet of flame. Anduin gasps, his hands coming up to the bloody but nonfatal cut underneath of them. He finishes turning around just in time to see Wrathion in his human form, his smoking, outstretched hand falling back to his side. His other hand was holding the back of his own neck, it and his entire posture bent at an unnatural angle. Right has her arms around him. They were okay.

The fighting around them ends in mere minutes. Left finishes off the last of her opponent, their body joining the other in the shrubbery. Valeera makes creative work of her victory by pinning one of the Forsaken’s own daggers into their sternum right into the trunk of a tree, making Anduin wince to himself. The rogue Wrathion had burned is left to smolder in the road, melting all the snow around it until it appears as nothing more than a crater in the middle of the white wilderness.

Left drops another body on top of that one. The rogue must have gone missing and alerted the band to stop and look for them, making them vulnerable to the surprise attack, and Anduin and Wrathion’s rescue.

With a short respite on their hands, Valeera makes her way over to undo the shackles around the king’s wrists. They fall to the ground in a satisfying clatter. Anduin doesn’t have a chance to rub the raw skin before the elf throws her arms around him and squeezes him in a hug. “I’m _so glad_ you’re okay,” she sighs.

“I feel okay, for the moment,” Anduin manages to wheeze out. He lets her have a few more moments before patting insistently on her back for release. Valeera draws him away at arm’s length, and they smile at each other, both with equally tired lines around their eyes. He looks back at the Blacktalons and asks, “Where are we? How in the world did you find us?”

Left and Right were both, well, more or less hovering over Wrathion, who tries to wave them off with a growl and his free hand, still keeping his head bent at that concerning angle. He certainly looks worse off than everyone else in the party; there was no hiding the way he was leaning heavily on Right for support. Anduin almost offers his healing, but finds himself just as deterred by Wrathion’s silent tantrum.

“Just on the edge of Silverpine,” Left finally rumbles. “As for finding you, we always knew we would. We just had… _other_ priorities.”

Anduin finds himself blinking wildly. Priorities bigger than Wrathion? The dragon known for making himself the biggest priority there is? He can’t scarcely believe it until he notices the large pack on Left’s back-- And the fact Anduin could see it moving.

Just as he’s about to ask, a small creature with black scales and green eyes pokes its head forcefully enough through the canvas flap to force it open, and greet the party with a squawk. 

Valeera coos. Anduin looks to Wrathion, who is doing his best look at the familiar whelp his experiments had reawakened.

Against all odds of his weak state, Wrathion manages a breathy laugh. His voice is just as raspy, but a blatant reassurance to the rogues on either side of him. “Yes… So you did.”

The little dragon makes another small trill to the sound of Wrathion’s voice. Another gust of wind soon sends him retreating into the knapsack, though. Left adjusts the straps on her shoulders with a gruff.

Anduin takes advantage of the moment; his hands glow, rubbing at his wrists and his worst injury against his side with the Light’s healing touch. His disbelief adds an edge to his voice. “This can’t… – There is no way Sylvanas could orchestrate an attack as bold as this. Would she?” The news of her possible Old God-influence was so briefly discovered-- Could she possible know Wrathion was here the whole time?

Left and Right look just as unsettled by the idea. Of course they feared for the dragons’ safety more than any war conflict. Yet it’s Valeera who speaks up.

“I don’t think it was the Warchief,” she says. She was trying to coax the whelpling out of its hiding place with a wiggling finger, but soon meets Anduin’s eye with a serious gaze. Then she looks to Left, holding out her hand until the orc does the same to accept the small object dropped into her palm. “I found this on the road before I caught up with you two.”

Anduin knows what it is by its color alone: It was a blood gem, identical to all the ones Wrathion used to craft for his most trusted agents. Except this one was cracked.

Wrathion was looking at the gem too. His mouth was in a thin line around his beard, but exhaustion and pain were still clearly weighing on him. His agents exchange a look over his head. Left clutches the gem tight in her hand.

“We should get out of here,” Right tells the group; the reminder of their open position and the terrible storm racks a delayed chill all throughout Anduin’s body. Her words are met with nods all around, save for Wrathion. The corpses and the cart are left where they are, as the five of them-- or six, counting the whelp-- scour off the road in search of shelter.


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding themselves in the Alterac mountains, the two royals and their bodyguards take refuge from the storm.

The edges of Silverpine unnerves the party at every turn through its wilderness and blinding snow, unknowing to them all of what dangers might lurk within Horde territory. Thankfully, it isn’t long before Left informs everyone that they had just crossed its border into the Alteracs, though the mountains that begin to rise on either side of them give little relief to the biting chill.

Wrathion entertains the idea of flying and carrying his companions exactly once. The notion is effortlessly thwarted by the continuous struggle of keeping himself from tripping over his own feet, and the fact that he knows he wasn't yet large enough for multiple passengers. Healing from his imprisonment in the ettin cage would be his first priority-- And that would take some time if they did not find a place to rest soon.

The cold was doing him no favors, either. He and King Anduin were sorely under-dressed for the occasion, traversing in nothing but light clothing and minimal provisions their rogue companions carried with them. The elf Valeera had tried offering the king her cloak, but Anduin assured her that the Light was always there to warm him in both spirit and body. The blue of his fingers and the chattering of his teeth told everyone better.

Aimlessly wandering in a cluster was getting them nowhere. They decide to veer toward the base of the mountains in hopes of finding a cave, or a crevice they could sink into away from the howling winds. Wrathion could feel through the blood connection that his rogues were still fretting, trying to prioritize his recovery above all else. He could feel his own stubbornness about rejecting their concern waning; it was becoming difficult to tell the difference between snow and lightheadedness obscuring his vision.

After what felt like an hour, the five of them finally stumble upon a cropping of stone that could protect them from the worst of the weather. They start a small fire, and Wrathion reluctantly lays with his head and neck cushioned by Left and Right's backpacks. The whelpling was much happier sitting by the fire with King Anduin and Valeera, who were startled when the small dragon suddenly leaps into the flames with a happy trill. Wrathion hoarsely laughs to himself hearing Right assure them it was expected black dragon behavior.

Their respite was to be a temporary one as Right braves the storm to search for a better hideaway, while Left stays behind to watch over the dragons. Valeera stands watch outside in the snow; Wrathion's draconic senses can hear her pacing from one side of the cropping to the next, a routine patrol. All that left was Anduin, hunched over with his arms folded on his knees and the angle of the stone pushing at his back.

He says nothing, his eyes only watching the flames or the whelp dozing within them. He looks truly ragged, from the dried stains of blood on his clothing to the hair escaping his ponytail, his eyes tired but unblinkingly alert at the same time. How routine this must be for him, Wrathion's mind wanders and wonders. How many times has Anduin Wrynn been kidnapped or nearly killed in his short lifetime? When did he-- or his own family-- finally convince the young lad that the dangers were simply to be expected of someone with his bloodline?

He doesn't get the chance to ask before all eyes in the shelter look up at Right's return, with Valeera jogging up behind her. Just a few paces east of here, she says as she shakes off the snow from her leathers, there was an abandoned mining town hidden away in the shadow of a cliff. After snuffing out the fire and Left helping Wrathion back to his feet, they wordlessly face the storm for what everyone prays is the last time.

Just as the dragon feels vertigo threaten to overtake him, the distant shapes of houses become more and more solid behind the curtain of falling snow. Many of the homes were destroyed, either by some sort of long-since passed fire or by the natural wear of age, but Rights leads them all straight to one structure still holding a roof over its head and holes that can be mended by debris. They shuffle inside one by one, deeming the creaking foundation and rotting furniture as good as they were going to get.

* * *

The house had one floor with a bed, kitchen, and small dining space, and a trap door leading to a cellar no one dares to open. Left and Right make sure Wrathion had claim of the bed, helping ease him down as gently as they did at the base of the mountains. The dragon had little fight in him to hiss or whine now. His face was merely twisted in a grimace, his eyes closed as the rogues worked to adjust him best they could against moth-eaten pillows. It wasn't ideal, but clearly, no one was intent on pressing on in their travels.

A hand falls on Anduin's shoulder, making him jump at Valeera smiling worriedly at him. "You should sit," she says. "You've had a rough couple of days."

It takes a moment for Anduin's shoulders to relax under her touch. He places a brief hand over hers. "I will. Thank you.”

Burning a fire in the home's old hearth is quickly agreed upon as unwise, not wanting to alert anyone of its inhabitants with a smoking chimney. Instead, Anduin and Valeera help Left and Right pull an old firewood stove from the wall and into the center of the room, closest to where Wrathion continues to reside wordlessly on the bed. They salvage the driest of the ruined furniture to stuff within the grate. After a match and Anduin's magic to strengthen the embers, everyone was able to feel the blood flowing through their frozen fingers and toes again.

Anduin settles himself on the floor, hearing the familiar sound of tiny paws against a crackling fire. He looks, and sees the hatchling squeezing his round body into the stove to spin once, twice, until settling with his tail curled around himself and his head on his paws. He whuffs a content plume of smoke from his nostrils.

Anduin's shoulders shake in a soundless, halfhearted laugh. He hasn’t had much experience in dragon whelps and regarding them as... _cute_. Not since the ones from Onyxia's brood had tried to eat him, and definitely not since the days of Wrathion chattering endlessly around the Tavern when _he_ was that size.

He's content to watch the whelp fall into its safe slumber. Anduin can feel his own eyes beginning to close, the chaos of the last few hours finally catching up to his weary state of mortal being. Until he hears the raspy voice of Wrathion from behind him say, "Erythian."

Anduin looks back at him. "Sorry?"

Wrathion hadn't moved from his place on the bed, regarding Anduin with blatant difficulty where he lie. But he flexes a finger in the direction of the napping whelp. "That is the name he has chosen for himself. Erythian."

Anduin’s eyes fall back to the whelp in the stove, camouflaged among the embers and black metal. He also regards the rogues sitting in the opposite corner of the room, their voices quiet; Valeera had cast doubt on the idea of political involvement in the king and dragon’s capture, of which Anduin was almost glad for. _Almost._ If he has other enemies-- ones who now know of Wrathion's whereabouts on Azeroth-- the king could not convince himself that there wasn't anything to fear in escalating the war further. If anything, his housing of a wanted war criminal painted a target on his back as big as the dragon’s own.

In the end, he turns himself around halfway to regard Wrathion. The dragon's long hair was spilled around his head, and his simple clothing was unkempt thanks to the travel through the harsh weather. He was keeping his head absolutely still, but his red eyes follow Anduin’s movements from the floor.

"There is no need to sleep down there," he says to the king. "There is at least room on this bed to sit."

"It’s alright," Anduin says, giving no hint of gratitude nor disdain in his tone. "I’m warm here. And you’re hurt.”

Wrathion huffs, by all intents and purposes already acting much more like himself since the events of those injuries. "I heal fast. By tomorrow morning, I will be set for us to make haste back to..."

He trails off. The king needed to return to Stormwind. But what of Wrathion and whelp-- of Erythian-- Anduin almost curiously ponders. One would suppose it was time for them to find a new home to watch over the hatchling in. But if they were in danger of discovery, or worse, another capture…

Wrathion seems much less content to dwell on it, and his eyes close again. "We'll be fit for travel by morning," he reiterates. "Do not worry about me."

“I never said I worried for you,” Anduin points out.

“You’re worried about me. I can feel it.” Wrathion shifts carefully, folding his hands together atop his chest and wiggling his toes in his boots. “Such a kind and wonderful friend you are, King Anduin Wrynn.”

Anduin rolls his eyes. “We’re not friends.”

“Liar.”

“Bastard.”

Wrathion’s lips curve up in a smile, his eyes still closed. Anduin feels himself almost smiling, but he refrains. He turns back to watch the stove and the whelp within, and then the three rogues still speaking quietly to one another at the table.

Whatever they were discussing, Anduin could see their faces grave. The found bloodstone sits untouched between them throughout their conversation. If Sylvanas Windrunner was not responsible for ordering the killings and kidnapping at Stormwind Keep… then who was?

Suddenly, he finds he is no longer yearning so strongly to join their discussion. The breaking wood and cracking embers are but mere feet away from him, and yet Anduin feels as if the sounds are worlds away. He fights to keep his eyes open, rubbing at one of them with the heel of his palm and dislodging some dried blood from his cheek in the process. Though the worst of his wounds were healed, his old injuries from Pandaria were starting to rear their head on an already exhausted body. Even worse, and by far the most petty of his complaints, Anduin could feel what he expected to be the pounding headache of caffeine withdrawal.

Bleary eyes observe the room once more. Valeera was leaving the house to keep watch outside, as Left and Right begin setting up their bed rolls to rest until their own posts. No one would ask him or Wrathion to take a watch. The fact Anduin was more glad than guilty truly attested for his state of exhaustion.

He looks to the dragon’s place on the bed one last time. Wrathion no longer radiated peskiness or pain, but instead with a deep sleep with every rise of his chest under his hands. A sure sign that the band would be ready to depart through another taxing day of travel by sun’s first light.

* * *

Something was caught on Wrathion’s hair and digging into his cheek. He grunts quietly as his consciousness begins to stir, shifting his face a little before he can consider the consequences of his sore neck.

He’s pleasantly surprised to find very little pain remains from the capture. It helps him shift a little more, bending his whole torso away until the annoyance is dislodge from his face, and he can peek a single red eye open to scrutinize it.

It was morning, and King Anduin had decided to take up his offer on sharing the space in the bed after all. Except that the two men were sleeping in opposite directions of each other, with Anduin’s head resting on the foot of the bed, and his disgusting leather boots in Wrathion’s breathing space. A far cry from the intimate experience the dragon might have first hoped for. Even Erythian had abandoned the cooking stove to lay on Wrathion’s knees when the fire had gone out, dampening any attempts the eldest dragon might have made to kick the king in vengeance.

Wrathion flops his head back and sighs. A prodding through the Blacktalons’ connection informs him of Left being awake outside, standing watch of the sleeping occupants within. The dragon lets her be, in a surprising show of patience, until the rest of the house is ready to wake on their own terms. It would make him feel a lot better to be the one kicking King Anduin out of bed, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! Apologies for a short chapter this time, I promise it's for the sake of story flow. The next one's gonna have all the good plot stuff inside of it that I'm super excited to start polishing. I also think I've figured out the best way to commit to writing in my free time, slowly but surely. So excited to stay on this project, and get my new drawing tablet to get back into fanart again soon, too. Thank you again for all the uplifting comments! 😭


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trials of approaching winter steer Wrathion, Anduin, and their rogues to gather their wits in a familiar fortress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'm only going to make this fic like, 12 chapters, tops  
my brain, playing the tavern kazoo music in my head: NICE TRY fucko we're only HALFWAY THERE
> 
> i don't want to look at this anymore just take it

The preparations for travel are made swiftly. A small shouting match erupts between Wrathion and King Anduin over the king’s unsightly bedtime manner until Left barks at the both of them to shut up, and the two wordlessly fall into line with their bodyguards with glares shot at one another’s back.

Snow continues to fall all around them, but the airy clumps are a blessing without violent wind and nightfall to set their course, and the chill was tolerable so long as they keep moving. It was agreed upon to seek out a small village to ask for shelter-- as venturing back through Silverpine was out of the question-- and request aid in contacting Stormwind, that their king still lived and could be returned immediately. A proper meal wouldn’t hurt either, as provisions between the six of them meant thin rations.

As they walk in a line through shin-deep snow, a healthier Wrathion levels his Blacktalons with a look. “As now would be a good time as any, tell me: What happened in Stormwind Keep?”

Left and Right exchange grim looks between them again. King Anduin, who was trailing behind the group’s carved pathway through the snow to lesson the stress on his legs, also gives the women his piqued gaze.

Right grimaces around her words. “You hadn’t been gone for more than a few minutes. Moss was bringing the others back for rotation… but he did not come alone.”

“Others brought the three of them instead,” Left spat in disgust. “Your assassins threw their bodies into the room and attacked Right and me, two of them. We took them down, but fled with the hatchling before more could show. As you wished of us, sir.”

Wrathion’s lips settle into a thin line, but he nods. Erythian’s safety had been set as the number one priority the moment his fossilized egg was discovered. Left and Right did not need direct orders from Wrathion every time the whelp’s safety came into question, even if that meant leaving the elder dragon behind. “An unfortunate end for Moss,” he says, “But I hope that it can be of some comfort that I discovered Brielle and Cylia to still live.”

His two rogues do look mildly relieved at the news. Though it’s Valeera that speaks up and says, “As did I. Sorry, dragon boy, but I had to hand those two over to the SI:7 for safe keeping.” She clears her throat. “And, I don’t know if this is a good time for this or not, but you… _might _be under suspicion for kidnapping the High King of the Alliance.”

Wrathion’s strides come to a halt. Behind him, Right, Valeera, and Anduin crash into his back at the sudden stop, and Left halts her own footfalls from the front of them.

The dragon whirls and leans around Right to regard the blood elf behind her, his voice cracking. “_Excuse me?_”

Valeera shrugs, like it’s out of her hands. “You also-- _might--_ be under suspicion of orchestrating said-kidnapping with the Warchief.”

“_H__a__!_” King Anduin barks, leaning from the side of his own bodyguard.

The dragon could feel the blood draining from his face, only to come rushing again in the shrill of his voice. “Exactly what part of this do you find hilarious, King Anduin Wrynn?”

“All of it,” Anduin replies, his voice infuriatingly even. “I find every part of it funny, and exactly what you deserve after I told you to leave me _out _of your schemes.”

Wrathion bristles. He can only tilt his body so far to glare daggers at the king before Valeera side-steps to obscure his view and glare back at him. Even still, he could catch a glimpse of Anduin preening behind her like a rotten child hiding behind his mother, making him scowl just as indignantly. He turns to Left. “Seeing as _neither of you_ told me of this yesterday, I suppose there is little to do about it _now._ What of the gem that was found?”

That, there seems to be little chagrin over. Left produces the blood gem from a satchel, placing it in Wrathion’s awaiting hand and rumbling from between her tusks. “We did not detect it when pursuing you. It must have been the damage.”

But even as splintered as the gem was, Wrathion could feel its magic the instant it touched his skin. His red eyes widened down at it. “This was Moss’s,” he says, as sure of it as the signature pulse of spellwork tells him so.

Yet his voice rings with too much surprise. Right frowns at him from behind. “Sir?”

Wrathion had stopped producing blood gems a long time ago. It was not the magic itself that was taxing for him, as dragons were known for expertly wielding their essence wherever they saw fit, but its reagents. A gem took the blood of both the magician and the receiver, and a link between their souls that bound them together like an iron chain. Wrathion had severed those links from the Blacktalons he no longer desired to keep under distant control, who could unintentionally expose his research with their discovery or capture continents away. Only a few remained that he trusted to stay close, or to stretch few and thin to watch his points of interest. And of course, he would never dream think of dismissing Left and Right.

He had not yet disconnected himself from Moss’s essence and soul, because one would assume, after one’s death, the job would take care of itself.

But Wrathion looks between his rogues, and Valeera and even Anduin, with astonishment he doesn’t even think to mask. “I can still feel Moss. He isn’t dead.”

* * *

Taelia did not envy Anduin or anyone else in his council when it came to war meetings. In fact, she finds herself much, much happier hugging the wall rather than standing in the middle of the war room over a table and several maps that Jaina Proudmoore and Greymane occupy to raise their voices at one another.

“We have no _proof_ that Horde was involved in this, Genn,” Jaina hammers for what is perhaps the fifth time this afternoon. “Going on your sense of smell and a few traces of poison isn’t enough to launch an army!”

“The king might be _dead_ without an army to extract him!” Greymane presses back. “What of the black dragon? We have no idea what he might be capable of!”

“And we have no idea if he and Anduin would even be in Orgrimmar, either.” As furious as the two of them were, Jaina’s anger couldn’t help its helpless twinge. “As badly as Sylvanas might want Anduin held against his will, or _killed_, I know for certain that the Horde would be just as hostile toward the Black Prince as we are. No icconcent was left unscathed from his actions.”

A lapse in silence made Taelia shrink further against the stone at her back. She knew very little about Wrathion, aside from the general ruing of the Iron Horde and the Legion thereafter. As much as she hated to admit it to herself, she and many others would consider her raised from a sheltered life. She used to live blissfully unaware of her father’s death until recently, when Anduin had reached out to her about the lie he, too, had suffered from Bolvar Fordragon’s true fate for so many years.

They mourned together, and shared stories together, and became friends and siblings in arms. To know Anduin’s life was in danger, possibly in the clutches of one of his own old friends and harbinger of war, was another unwelcome truth Taelia was reluctant to bear. Only this time, she was determined to do everything in her power to undo the damage wrought.

She hears Greymane sigh. When she looks back toward the center of the room, the man was rubbing at his brow. “It’s been almost three days, Jaina. Six royal guards are dead, and Anduin is injured, if he still lives at all. We have to do something before our champions march upon the Horde capitols themselves.”

Jaina looks just as at a loss. Still, it doesn’t take her long before her face hardens. For the first time since their argument arose, she looks at Taelia, who straightens immediately. “I want you to go to the SI:7, and demand to speak with the Black Prince’s agents. Bring some guardsmen with you, and get anything you can out of them.”

The old worgen scoffs. “They have not shown a single ounce of cooperation thus far. What makes you think they will listen to Taelia?”

“I don’t,” Jaina says, her doubt as clear in her words as it is in her face. “But maybe a new face will help. Maybe they’re as tired of waiting for the dragon as we are. I don’t know, Genn. But we _cannot_ attack Sylvanas Windrunner outright.”

Which was enough for Taelia to leave the Keep before another argument could erupt. As Jaina had bidden, the young woman leaves with a pair of guards on each side of her, and her faithful sword strapped to her person for that extra weight of security she hopes she wouldn’t need. Greymane wasn’t wrong: Ever since the two rogues were discovered, neither of them have said a word about King Anduin or Wrathion. They hadn’t said a word at all, in fact, and wouldn’t eat or drink while the wardens watched them in their cells. Their silence only painted a broader picture of the black dragon’s ill intent toward the High King of the Alliance.

Entering the SI:7’s base of operations, the spies within didn’t even need to ask what she was there for. Taelia is led to a pair of holding cells deep within the underground maze, where Mathias Shaw presides over them both with his hands behind his back.

He looks over his shoulder to regard Taelia. Despite the disgrace her father had brought upon their family name, Shaw and many others still held Taelia in the respectable regard of a noble, and a powerful ally to Azeroth’s efforts. No one questions her authority for being here. The old rogue nods at her. “We still haven’t learned anything new from them,” he says. “Their weapons and armor have been stripped and searched. Neither of their communication devices the Blacktalons have been known to carry with them have been found, either.”

He speaks of the two agents as if they aren’t even there, sitting silently in their individual cells just a few feet away. Even without the dwarf and elf being able to see one another, their leering at Shaw’s back somehow uncannily identical.

Taelia sighs through her nose, summoning up her confidence into the straight set of her shoulders. “Jaina Proudmoore has asked that I speak to them.”

Shaw’s brows raise just slightly, but he nods. Clearly, he wasn’t confident of any change to the Blacktalons’ cooperation either. They could only try and try again until someone finally gave the command to pursue the Warchief. “Very well. All I ask is that you stay on this side of the bars.”

Taelia would be left alone, then, with the Stormwind guards flanking the cells and the exit. She chooses to stand outside the dwarf’s cell, at enough distance away that the woman wouldn’t be able to grab her if she desired.

Not that the rogue on the other side of the bars looked like she was going anywhere any time soon. Her red hair hung loose with her long sideburns, and her hands were clasped together in her lap. Bright brown eyes bore into Taelia’s, but there was nothing in her face but that same silent defiance. Taelia didn’t know if she knew who she was, or if the dwarf even cared. If Taelia has to guess, all that mattered to her and the sin’dorei was their Blacktalon loyalty.

Taelia still had to try. “Please,” she says. “We must know if the king still lives.”

Nothing but that same, hard stare. Taelia presses again. “Can you not tell us if Wrathion works alone, or with others? What of the other agent we found in the room? The body--”

– Was more perplexing to her than it was gruesome. It undoubtedly belonged to another Blacktalon, the leather armor it wore identical to the two agents who had theirs taken from them. It was also lanky, with the gnarled fingers and protruding bone from its shoulder blades that made it undead. The head had been severed, or… well-- perhaps it had been misplaced. There was no blood, no struggle of detaching spine and flesh. It churned Taelia’s stomach to remember the decapitation being so clean.

Despite the mention of their fallen comrade, neither the dwarf nor the elf from the cell over showed a response. Taelia was only stared at, and her jaw clicks tight in response. Her quaint diplomacy routine was starting to reach its end.

“Just tell me if your dragon had anything to do with it,” Taelia snaps, her caution abandoned as a fist comes down on rusted iron. “A king is missing, and good men and women are dead! What is it you _want?_”

The guards in the room don’t say a word. Neither does the dwarf, who Taelia_ swears_ she sees smirk before those brown eyes pull away from her. Was it that same loyalty to their dragon, or was there truly a graver plot at hand that they were all oblivious to? Taelia, Jaina, Greymane, Anduin and the forces of Azeroth hanging on by a thread of sanity--

Taelia’s fist comes down on the cell bars again, but the dwarf doesn’t react. Not a flinch, not reaching out to grab her like she first been wary of. From beyond her cell, the sin’dorei remains just as placid.

Another click of her jaw. It was always a tic of Taelia’s, one that she could never quite shake when she was anxious-- or determined. Her teeth and face set hard together, and she waves a hand at a guardsman by the prison entrance. With a clueless fumble and the woman’s pointed gaze, a chair was produced in the middle of the floor, right between the two cell holdings.

Taelia drapes the sheathe of her sword across the chair’s back. In a calm motion, folding one leg over the other, she takes her seat with her hands in her lap, mirroring the rogues’ posture.

“Fine,” Lady Taelia Fordragon says. Her quaint diplomacy returns in all ways but the stone, battle-hardened lines of her complexion, the dwarf meeting her gaze with Dun Morogh-bred stoniness of her own.

Jaina and Greymane may have given up, but Taelia wouldn’t. “You’re not going anywhere until the King is found. And neither am I.”

* * *

It had been hours. Sometimes they run into dead-ends where the mountains were too steep to climb and had to go around, just to run into another wall or perilous cliff. No matter how high they _were_ able to climb, the wind and endless banks of snow provide no direction to them. Erythian starts to make ear-splitting fusses from Left’s backpack that last until he tires himself out, only to start up again from his hunger and the cold. It pierces Anduin’s skull and makes Wrathion grumble noises of annoyance, but everyone knew there was little to be done about it.

There only comes a speck of hope when the snow underneath their boots starts to become squishier than just pure, fresh powder. Anduin could see grass peeking through mounds of scattered snowfall, and even the snow coming down around them had eased. Soon, more vegetation could be seen, and even the distant pines were not so heavily decorated with their white caps.

Wrathion gasps suddenly, forcing the group into another stop. “Wait-- I know where we are!”

No one could think to ask when Wrathion suddenly shifts into a familiar drake, startling the group into steering away from his massive form as he takes off into flight. The rogues stare after him as Anduin sputters. _What--_

He’s flying back to the group in an instant, his excitement clear as day underneath the powerful draconic rumble of his voice. “It is this way. Hurry!”

With Wrathion flying off without them and the whelp starting to thrill crankily again, the earthbound below didn’t have a choice. They follow the dragon’s shadow as quickly as they can, and though the snow was much easier to traverse than before, Anduin could still feel a burning all through his legs and hips from pushing his muscles for so long. They scream at him for relief, but he keeps going, feeling Valeera’s hand on his arm or his shoulder to steady him every now and then.

At last, after fighting through small rockslide debris and unyielding trees, they could see it: An estate expertly nestled between stone and forest, so deep in the zig-zag of mountains that one would be lucky to stumble upon it accidentally. It rises tall and wide, the rooms beyond the windows pitch-black from vacancy.

Anduin had never seen a place like it. Yet one glance to Left and Right told him of familiarity: They’ve been here before, and so apparently has Wrathion, who was back within his human form several yards ahead of them to usher the party into the courtyard. “Hurry, hurry-- Out of the cold.”

There was an excitement to his voice the king hadn’t heard since the dragon paraded his experiments to him in Karazhan. It was a familiar enough of a feeling to set off a few red flags, but the six of them didn’t have any argument left in them. An abandoned cabin in the woods was probably the best they were going to get for a while, and so they force their way inside through the front door, its locks and hinges rusted but eventually yielding to enough force.

Anduin stares inside when the doors give way. Cobwebs and dust litters what tells him of a place that was no ordinary estate. Time had left a thick layer over maps, forges, weapons, multiple rooms and corridors, items left gathered as if they were being looted then simply left there. There were multiple braziers that Wrathion starts to light one by one.

After they were warm and feeling the first inklings of safety, Wrathion humbly welcomes them to Ravenholdt.

* * *

He couldn’t remember the last time he was clean. Maybe he had never been clean in his entire life, and he was only just experiencing the bliss of hot water and washed hair and non-sticky clothing for the first time, and everything else before now was just a terrible fever dream. Either way, Anduin took his time before he had to depart from his bath.

His old clothing was ruined and left carelessly in the corner of the washroom, replaced with the simple leathers he had managed to find in the manor’s armory before leaving everyone’s company to bathe. As he clicks his prosthetic into place and finishes fussing with the many buckles of his trousers, he couldn’t help thinking fondly back on the days of wearing a priest’s robes. Those were better times. Not like now, where he either had pauldrons crushing his shoulder blades or leather tunics pinching under his armpits.

Anduin sighs hard through his nose when he stops in front of a mirror. The circles under his eyes had become much deeper, and there was now the noticeable scabbing of a cut from his brow to his jawline. From the assassin’s blade, he remembers. It was one of the last blows struck to him before Wrathion had appeared in the throne room and he was bludgeoned into unconsciousness.

Three glowing fingertips touch Anduin’s skin. The ugly wound starts to fade until it is but a pink, jagged line down the side of his face. His thumb scrapes away the lingering scabs. He ties up his hair, and departs from his refuge of the room.

Wrathion and his rogues were gathered in a strategy room of sorts, peering over several parchments laid across a grand oak table. Like Anduin, the dragon had discarded his former clothing for Blacktalon leathers, though his ensemble was more elaborate and identical to Left and Right’s own. He wore multiple layers with daggers fastened to his hip, long hair piled atop of his head and out of the way of his downward gaze. What annoyed Anduin instantly was the way he strokes his ridiculous beard. Facial hair did not grow and point that way naturally. It was stupid dragon magic crafted to spite the king of the Alliance personally.

Wrathion did not look up from his engrossing conversation with Left and Right, so the king continues further down the hall until finding a room with a grand, burning hearth, and two occupants inside. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was Valeera, amusing herself and Erythian with a strip of leather the whelp was trying to catch over his head with teeth or claws. He was at that stage Anduin had seen many times from champions carrying around a new pet: mobile but still young, having enough bursts of energy to run and launch themselves in the air, only being able to support themselves with their wings for a few moments before their fat bodies met the ground again.

Anduin gives a soundless sigh, his quickly-built tension fading. Erythian was still small and developing. Wrathion might actually be right, and the whelp won’t be cursed to age as rapidly as he had. Even more so, he was glad Erythian did not mind Valeera’s absence from his hatching enough to want to bite her.

Though the king does jump when Erythian’s maw _snaps_ around the leather, landing back on the floor with all four paws and shaking his head vigorously like a hound. Valeera laughs, lets the dragon have his reward, and blinks up at Anduin is surprise.

“Afternoon, sunshine.” She stands to step over Erythian’s victory gnawing and meet the king halfway. “How are you feeling?”

Anduin forces himself to smile at her, feeling the unnatural pull in his muscles from the feat himself. “I am fine. I promise. I believe I haven’t had the chance to thank you until now.”

Valeera looks about as tired as he does, but there were no injuries or stress on her that Anduin’s been able to see for the last few days. It made him glad, and she smiles back at him. “That’s my job. And, you’re welcome.”

Anduin chuckles. Then quickly sobers. “… but, with Wrathion and Sylvanas Windrunner...”

Oh, of course the idea was hilarious. It’s exactly what Wrathion deserves, and Anduin isn’t going to change his mind anytime soon about that. Yet another march on the Warchief’s turf was the last thing Anduin wants in his lifetime after Lordaeron’s losses. And he knows without a doubt that Wrathion’s hypothetical involvement could have only come from the found Blacktalons and his private words with Jaina, damning the true implications of his disappearance when the castle was to inevitably discover the scene left in the throne room.

Valeera knows it too, giving him a sympathetic look. “I had to find you first before I could dissuade anything. Lady Proudmoore and Shaw are still the only ones who know about me too, kiddo.”

“I know.” Anduin admits it immediately, and sighs again. “I know. I’d hold it off longer if I could, but...”

Azeroth can’t afford anymore secrets. Even if it meant exposing Valeera’s secret employment to the Wrynn line sooner than later. So Anduin digs beneath his leather and his shirt, pulling out a smooth stone he places in Valeera’s hands. She balks at it, then hisses exasperatedly, “_Anduin--_”

“Go to Stormwind,” he says. The hearthstone lies in the elf’s palm between them, Anduin’s most comforting link between himself and his aunt since his childhood, and one he would dare not use to leave others behind. Even if _others_ sometimes included Wrathion and his guards. “Tell them I’m alive. Stop their attacks on the Forsaken before it’s too late.”

Valeera’s gaze on him remains unsure. Her fingers did not dare wrap around the stone. “I can try. I’m going to have to tell them everything, you know. And you’re going to have to stay here for us to come get you.”

Anduin reluctantly nods. This place was obviously special to Wrathion once, and the dragon wasn’t going to like others knowing about it. But here it was safe, and a few forces from Stormwind could protect them from whoever was truly behind their ambush. “Thank you. Again. For everything--”

Valeera only bumps their shoulders together before she smiles. Anduin hesitates, then nods again.

The king gathers Erythian and his occupied chewing from the floor before the hearthstone is activated, making the rogue vanish in a gentle whirl of magic that strokes the flames of the room’s burning hearth.

When the room settles, the whelp squirms out of Anduin’s arms to resuming his biting. It isn’t long before Wrathion comes into view from the threshold, his brows furrowed. “What is going on? I felt spellwork activate in here.”

It takes a moment of collecting his breath for Anduin to look at him, seeing Wrathion’s red eyes regard him with… concern? Or, perhaps that was in regards to Erythian’s wet-smacking sounds from the floor.

“I sent Valeera back to Stormwind,” Anduin says, a hand held up before Wrathion can protest, but the dragon doesn’t open his mouth. He continues, “She has a hearthstone, and she’s going to bring whatever she can to get us out of here. And, to the best of her abilities, clear your name.”

Anduin expects the dragon to be unhappy about Ravenholdt’s whereabouts being known, and he sees the downward pinch in the corners of Wrathion’s mouth at the mention of it. To Anduin’s relief however, he only seems to convince himself of accepting Anduin’s words in full. “As such, the clearing of my name _would_ be appreciated. And if my old home should be made known… I suppose I would rather that than see it fade into obscurity.”

Anduin could feel his eyebrows rise a little. Wrathion once called this place home? The dragon tilts his head into the direction of the hallway, and Anduin finds himself cautiously following him through more corridors and rooms, always filled with dust that illuminate like thin veils of sunlight in the catching light of freshly-burning braziers. When the dragons leads the two of them past two doors and into a courtyard, the natural light around them was fading fast to sunset.

“I’m afraid we have not yet found an explanation for what happened at the Keep,” Wrathion says. Their footsteps have slowed, and though the dragon’s back was turned to him, Anduin could see he only had the intent of observing the landscape around them. “Only that it was clear that the attack was intended for me, and you-- your fallen men-- were caught in the middle. For that... I am sorry, King Anduin.”

In any other time or place, Anduin surely would have taken the words, the avoided glances, as Wrathion lying to him. He can only watch the dragon pause, dragging the point of his boot across the snow as if he intends to find something buried underneath, but the king sees nothing but a disturbed line in the earth.

Lined across the stone walls around them are empty weapon racks, scattered pieces of armor, and the worn-away carcass of a stitched training dummy, but little else. He wonders how early it must have been in his short life when Wrathion called this place home. “As much as I hate to say it, Wrathion,” Anduin says slowly, “… I don’t blame you for what happened. At least, not entirely. As soon as we learn who is responsible, they will see justice delivered from Stormwind.”

Wrathion looks back at him then, surprised or concerned or _something_ again. They were still in the middle of the round courtyard where the dragon made a single mark in the snow. Then he smiles. “Appreciated. So now, we stay until you’re timely rescue?”

Anduin rolls his eyes. “Yes, especially the _we_. Clearing your name won’t mean much without you present for it.”

“Yes, so I figured.” The dragon starts to stride past him back to whence they emerged from, but he holds out a finger for Anduin to wait. “I have just the thing to make the time go by.”

Wary, Anduin stays where he is, folding his arms and tucking his hands out from the cold underneath of them. When Wrathion returns, he gapes at him.

The dragon wiggles two bottles with long necks between his fingers. The sinful liquid swirls within them, and he beams at the king. “Shall we celebrate our victory while the night is still young?” Wrathion asks.

Being beaten and rescued was something Anduin could hardly call a _victory_. And Wrathion was the last person on Azeroth he would want to celebrate anything_ with_.

But the bottles clink together again, and Anduin feels that burning in his chest gain another spark. A brewing of all these last few weeks’ anger, fatigue and betrayal, toiling away in his stomach faster than grief or caution could catch up to him.

It was a bad idea. He takes a bottle, and Wrathion grins as he opens the other with pointed teeth.


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valeera warns Stormwind of the king's whereabouts, while said-king has maybe one too many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dead tired since all this work-from-home started, but I, too, have also been browsing Ao3 endlessly since the quarantine. Read content, make content. Enjoy some boys(tm) being drunk.
> 
> EDIT: AAA I FORGOT LOOK AT THIS CUTE FANART!!! HECK https://behodahlia.tumblr.com/post/612810499640508416/i-felt-really-inspired-by-a-particular-line

One minute, Valeera was standing in front of King Anduin and a bitey little Erythian with the warmth of a burning hearth at her back. The next, she was in a throne room that was cold with stone and winter’s coming, and more than a dozen royal guard surrounding her with blades at her throat.

She raises her hands slowly, but apparently not slow enough. The uniforms around her only tighten their advance at the sight of the fel-burning blades at her hips, and she winces to herself.

Of course Anduin would realign his hearthstone here. Not to his bedroom, or the cellars like a sane or selfish monarch would. The pacifist king would want to be where he was closest to his people and his men in case of trouble-- And today, that trouble just happens to be Valeera.

Just as she’s debating whether or not to fight her way to cover, she hears the sanctioning cry of, "Wait!" pierce through the crowd. With enough elbowing and men reluctantly parting the way for her authority, Jaina Proudmoore emerges into the circle, placing herself protectively in front of the rogue with a hand outstetched. "Lower your blades! It is alright.”

The guards continue to eye Valeera warily, but do as they’re commanded without so much as a murmur. Behind them, she spies the familiarly haughty sight of Genn Greymane, his hackles all but literally raised in his human guise.

"Who is this?" he demands of the mage.

Feeling slightly more confident in the safety of at least one ally, Valeera can’t help puffing out her chest proudly. “A friend of the kingdom,” she says. And, once the guards start to disperse back to their posts against the walls of the chamber, she even offers the worgen a cheeky smile and dismissive wave. “Long before your time, young man.”

Greymane's wrinkled brow tightens in offense. The sharp look her points to Jaina asks again, _Who __the hell __is __this__?_

But Jaina’s only has eyes for Valeera. More than that, the rogue can see them burning intently on the hearthstone clutched in her hand. Valeera wordlessly offers it for her to examine.

The dim stone touches her skin, and suddenly, the mage’s expression is soft and faraway. "Oh, I remember this one,” she says so quietly. “I gave it to Anduin in Theramoore when he was a boy. So he could be safe with me if he was in trouble, or if Vari--”

She cuts herself off, eyes and fingers both squeezing shut. Her gaze suddenly lifts back to Valeera; back to business. The elf nods. "He's alive," she says, watching Jaina and Greymane both deflate in relief. "On the other side of the Lordaeron kingdom, somewhere in the mountains."

“’_Somewhere’_?” Greymane asks ludicrously- as expected, earning a nod from Valeera in reply.

"Do you still have those Blacktalon agents?" she asks suddenly.

Two identical nods answer her question. Valeera smiles, but she can feel the way it sits wound tight on her face. This was going to be a tricky situation indeed. "Good. We're going to need their help finding their hideout."

Little else needed to be said before king, rogue and mage exit the keep and make their way toward the SI:7 building. Though more agents and guards jump at the ready at the sight of Valeera, they’re deterred by the trio’s purposeful strides into the underbelly of the headquarters. To Greymane’s further exasperation, even Mathias Shaw is there to greet Valeera like an old friend, despite the two never exchanging a word in person-- As if she or Anduin could hide anything from the old man even if they tried. It’s his composure that keeps any of the lingering rogues off their backs for good.

At last, a barren room of two occupied cells opens before the four of them, with one more watchful occupant in the center. Lady Fordragon looks over her shoulder, then immediately leaps to her feet with her large claymore in hand, the chair she was sitting in clattering on its legs. The pointed edge of the blade levels with Valeera’s chin, who immediately throws her hands up, again.

“Taelia!” Jaina says quickly, then more gently, “It’s alright. She’s a friend of the Wrynns-- of all of us. She knows where Anduin is.”

Her hand falls on Taelia’s own, the latter giving Valeera another distrustful leer. The elf couldn’t blame her entirely; the dark circles under her eyes say plenty of what must have been a sleepless night for the human. She lowers her blade slowly, eyes narrowed. “He’s alive?”

“He’s alive and kicking,” Valeera reassures. She nods at the two cells behind her. “And those two can tell us where he _and_ their boss are doin’ the kicking, if you promise not to stab me first.”

Taelia’s tired eyes suddenly spark to life. She sheathes her blade easily, allowing Valeera to lower her hands and for Jaina to step back.

The dwarf and sin’dorei Blacktalons regard their interrogators with blatant disinterest. To be honest, Valeera felt kind of bad for them, seeing them without their armor and reminding herself of the constant surveillance they must have been under. If this _was_ all just a big misunderstanding on Wrathion’s part, the kid wasn’t going to get any good reviews from his former employees. But, if there was one thing Valeera knew from being Varian’s friend since the Prestor incident, it’s that you couldn’t assume any dragon was innocent just based on a gut feeling, either. No matter how cute their little siblings were. Yet even surrounded as they were by persons of interest and a handful of royal guard, neither rogue offers them a word.

“The King of Stormwind and the Black Prince are awaiting ferry from a fortress called Ravenholdt,” Valeera says. “They are unharmed, but their attackers could close in at any minute if you can’t shows us where to extract them from.”

She pauses, looking over her shoulder at Shaw. “Unless you guys know where that is?”

But Mathias Shaw only gives a deep frown. “Not I, unfortunately. It’s been a point of interest for decades, up until the small pockets of rebellions started to cease.”

“And surely you’re not implying that Wrathion _himself_ isn’t this attacker to be hostile toward,” Greymane pipes up to scoff. “Lest he and Sylvanas have come at a crossroads?”

“I’m not sure she’s got anything to do with this at all,” Valeera says, watching the others’ mixed reactions; some happy, some confused, and one near-constipated. Take a guess. “It’s true there was some Forsaken colors and equipment at work, but anyone can pick through the Undercity rubble for that stuff.”

“Then why kill soldiers and kidnap the king outright?” Greymane asks.

Valeera shrugs helplessly, shoulders staying pitched under her ears. “Look, I’m just saying after all the intel I’ve been gathering for him, kidnapping and dragon-deal-making seems a little out of the way for Warchief right now! This’ll just be easier if we get both of them back here and question them ourselves, right? Even the Black Prince sounds like he wants to figure this mess out.”

The two Blacktalons continue their silence, the emptiness lingering with the thoughts of everyone else’s. Valeera hears the worgen gruff behind her. “Very well. Ravenholdt, you said?” Valeera nods. “Then we best get this underway.”

A more extensive interrogation was coming, she could feel it. But when Greymane parts the group to reclaim Taelia’s place, he gets but two steps in before his large form is suddenly on the ground, sending up dust and many a startle throughout the rest of the room.

He groans, and the rest of them whirl behind themselves.

Shaw reacts first, his blade drawn and parried by one of Stormwind’s royal guard. A quick but ultimately harmless swing sends their helm flying to reveal a female orc. Another guard to their right lunges for Valeera, still masked, and crushing her between armor and iron bars. She gasps, then wretches arm and knee free to struggle against her assailant until finding the space she needs to trade blows between fel daggers and unfamiliar shivs.

The confusion of an enemy in friendly colors ultimately catches the rest of the group off-guard in a similar fashion. Valeera spies Taelia parrying against a large kal’dorei as Greymane scrambles back to his feet-- or paws-- as his maw snarls and snaps toward another enemy, their slotted helmet removed to reveal themselves as a rugged, unfamiliar human man. On the other side of the room, Jaina fends herself with short bursts of spellwork against a Nightborne with silver hair. The room was chaos, and in better circumstances, five heroes against several hired thugs would hardly be a challenge.

But the small quarters they were in were spelling disaster for a few of them: Taelia was confined to thrusting her blade instead of the powerful swings that could take out someone’s eye, and Valeera knew that Jaina’s most powerful magic could mean fatal friendly fire. Even Greymane could be seen visibly struggling with finding the best place to align his footing, or where or how to bring down the assailant in front of him without compromising the others.

It became belatedly obvious to Valeera that their enemy had little of the same struggle. They attack in the small confines of the room with ease, just as she and Shaw could. They were trained for close combat-- They were _agents_.

With a shout of pain, Taelia was the first to fall, her claymore sent spinning across the floor as she goes still in a heap underneath of her cloak. Behind her defeat soon came Greymane’s, then Jaina. The foul stench in the air alerts Valeera and Shaw of the same thing-- the enemies’ blades were coated in toxin.

A rush of white-hot pain suddenly sends every nerve in Valeera’s body alight. Just as quickly as the attack had unwittingly come, however, those burning nerves suddenly don’t register at all when her body meets the stone. She doesn’t feel her blades slips from her fingers, or the way her hair should feel falling over her face. All she can do is watch as Shaw meets the same fate, and hear the stillness that settles over the room once more in deathly silence.

Until heavy footfalls step around Valeera’s form, as calmly as if a struggle hadn’t just taken place. It was her opponent, still with their features concealed by their steal armor. They stop in front of the Blacktalons’ cells, a satisfied little sigh escaping them through the small slot of the helmet. “So the dragon hasn’t ventured far. Ravenholdt, was it? Seems he hasn’t gotten creative after all this time.”

Valeera’s green eyes dart to a movement on the floor; the night elf was digging into Shaw’s pockets for a ring of keys. They hand them to the mystery guard, as Valeera can only watch through the thin veil of her hair as the cell doors swing open. Finally, she hears one of the Blacktalon women speak in a thick Quel’Danasian accent. “What do we do about them?”

“Leave them. We’ll have taken care of the dragons by the time someone braves to check _in_ on this private interrogation.”

No amount of willpower could make Valeera’s mouth move, to question or demand answers. She couldn’t even flinch when the stranger’s helmet comes crashing to the floor in front of her, save for the quick blinking of her eyes. They strain to look up, where she catches sight of their face.

A Forsaken man meets those eyes, grinning a row of yellowed teeth above the X’s of stitching across his neck. “Thank you for your service, Lady Sanguinar.”

* * *

Wrathion did not honestly, entirely expect King Anduin Wrynn to accept his invitation for an evening of drinking. Even more so, he certainly hadn’t expected to make not one, but _two_ trips back to the cellar to replenish the wine bottles they emptied together in quick succession. When the king was through his third spirit, Wrathion simply poured the rest of his own into it, alarmed but impressed.

It wasn't as though the king was unaffected by his gusto of heavy drinking, however. In the moonlight, the dragon could plainly see Anduin's flushed face and glassy, faraway stare into the forest around the hilltop they sat upon. Wrathion could barely feel a caress of influence from his own indulgence, though he was sure to drink just as much to keep Anduin from accusing him of _ploys_ or _secret motives_ for getting him drunk by himself. But to his frustration, the king had spent the last couple of hours saying nothing at all.

He watches Anduin again lift the bottle to his lips, take a long drink, then make that face Wrathion had seen all night: Anduin didn't care for the taste, but for whatever reason he might have, he was willing to bear it just to finish it off.

"I’m surprised, your majesty," Wrathion says, light and teasing as he’s been all night despite his thinning patience. "I remember well the evening Tong's guests goaded you into a single swig of beer, and you could barely stand after. Refined your tolerance, have we?"

At first Anduin didn't respond, as expected, as had been usual the entire evening thus far. But then he stares off into some indiscernible space in the distance, and Wrathion actually blinks in surprise at the sound of his voice. "Actually, I started drinking coffee recently."

"Coffee?" Wrathion asks. He cannot help the wariness of his voice. "Or...?"

A very belated, very flat laugh pushes from Anduins lips. There was still some wit in that drunken cloud in his head yet. "Not grummle kafa. Just regular... regular, Stranglethorn coffee."

Wrathion snorts. He makes a small 'ah' noise of his own reassurance, then takes a sip. The night was going nowhere, he tells himself. Anduin had been closed off to him ever since Stormwind, and even more so since Wrathion's failed attempts at intoxicated merriment. Perhaps they should call it a night, and Wrathion could hash out exactly _what_ he can tell the king’s dear friends about their abduction before Valeera’s return...

But then Anduin lifts the bottle to his lips, and doesn't drink. He speaks across it instead, his breath making the round glass opening whistle. “Hey. Do you wanna know why I started drinkin' coffee?"

It's the first thing you've decided to open up to me about all _week_, Wrathion wanted to say. But the slur and lack of cadence in Anduin's voice was... sad. He was not speaking lightly to mask his anger, as he was wont to do. Neither was he shouting nor snide, as the dragon had come to experience just as wittingly.

King Anduin hadn't looked at him all night, nor spoke without Wrathion questioning him or speaking to him first. But right now, Anduin _was_ looking at him, and _was _speaking to him, even when Wrathion forgot to answer his question, answering himself instead. "Because I don't know how to just... _be,_ anymore."

"That is... quite the correlation to make between yourself and coffee, I must confess," Wrathion says. But it felt dry on his tongue, as if the wine had parched his whole mouth with its vintage. "… What do you mean?"

Prying further might be a mistake. But it was hard not to when he finally had the king’s attention. Those eyes were still on him, blue and faraway, but even their drunken lack of focus did nothing to hinder the way Anduin continues to look so, so much older since their days of companionship.

He did not look so disheveled as one might after so much liquor, either. He and Wrathion did not dance, or laugh or bawl as drinking mates often do. Since the king had bathed and joined him on this still night, not a single hair was out of place from his brow or the band that tied it together. The light Blacktalon leathers fitted him excellently, and any remaining evidence if their imprisonment only lingered in the faintest scars Wrathion notices were healed by his holy magic.

The only other sign that Anduin Wrynn was intoxicated was the red on his pale face, and the smell of wine on his breath when his voice cracks. "I don’t want to be _king_ anymore."

He suddenly laughs. Anduin Wrynn sounds like he might cry, then he _laughs,_ as jubilant and loud as Wrathion was just mediating on drunks to do just seconds ago, only the sound was still horribly, discerningly sad. "I can't be the king of the whole entire Alliance anymore, Wrathion. Look at me-- Do you know how old I am?"

Wrathion did know, but he suspects Anduin to answer his own question, and he was right as the human wiggles his half-empty bottle by its neck. "Barely old enough to drink this. I'm nineteen. I'm _nineteen_ years old!" He laughs again. "Did you know that? The King of the Alliance is a _nineteen_ year old orphan, leading crusades, training armies-- and drinking _coffee_ because he can't stay awake long enough to deal with--"

_You_. Wrathion braces himself for the word to come.

But when he glances to the king again, Anduin was no longer looking at him.

Perhaps there was hope for their relationship yet. Or perhaps, it was tragically selfish for Wrathion to pity himself while Anduin drinks himself deeper into the trenches of his depression. As soon as the thought strikes him, he feels that erring embarrassment of his assumption.

Anduin drinks again. “I knew I wasn’t going to make a good king without my father around,” he says. It was obvious he was trying to whisper, but the slosh of his words only makes them a barely-comprehensible mumble. “At least the Legion was-- was this _big_ thing we _all _could fight against. An’ Prophet Velen was-- well, you know.”

Wrathion may not know, exactly, beyond the draenei being a teacher to the king. But he nods, and Anduin seems satisfied enough with that. He goes to drink, but the bottle is empty when it upturns it to his lips. The dragon offers the rest of his bottle’s contents as he had done before, only to be rejected by an uneven shake of the king’s head. “An’ now, I just… I’m not _strong_, Wrathion. I try to be, but I feel like-- Like peace doesn’t work anymore. An’ Aunt Jaina hates me for not helpin’ her with the Kirin Tor, and Genn hates me for not being strong like Varian was. All I want to do is tell them I’m sorry-- I’m sorry for just being a small, stupid kid who never _asked_ for any of this. Then_ you_ came along, and everything’s been crazy. I can barely take two steps outside without my guards, an’ it’s like-- What’s the _point_? To any of this? Y’know?”

A tear falls slowly from Anduin’s flushed cheek. It’s barely see in the dark profile of his face, only illuminated to visibility thanks to the red glow of the dragon’s eyes. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Anyone else who dearly loved Anduin Wrynn would rush to reassure him. To gather him in their arms and shush him. But any empathy within Wrathion buckles under the pressure of his curt words. “And what of an apology to _me?_”

Anduin’s face swivels toward him, glassy eyes wide but brows knit together. Another tear spills free, but neither man addresses it. This time when Wrathion brings the wine to his lips, the burn of it is purposeful, to ignite the fire of the rambling that spills free of him. “You are so determined to see how you may have faulted everyone around you, but where are _my_ sorry’s, King Anduin? We have bickered plenty over Kun-lai and my experiments, and I would even say I deserved every word, at first. But you have crossed the line many of times to just be cruel to me, your majesty, whether or not we _were_ once friends.”

The king opens his mouth to speak, interrupted as Wrathion points his bottle at him like an accusionary finger. “Did I deserve to be locked up? Maybe. Did I d_eserve_ to be punched in the face? _Perhaps_. Is it wrong for the public to draw some imaginary line between me and the Warchief’s vendettas? Of course not.”

He’s losing the point he’s trying to make. Wrathion growls, takes another deep swig, then points the bottle again underneath Anduin’s nose. “But _you_, King Anduin Wrynn, have done nothing but spit your venom at me long past the juncture of any ‘deserved’ mockery. I didn’t come to you asking for forgiveness. Never _once_ did I inquire such a thing I knew I did not deserve. But casting me to the gallows and damning my efforts to secure Erythian’s life--”

Wrathion stands pointedly, intending to have the last word and leave a self-pitying Anduin to his turmoil, only to find himself slightly off-balance and dropping the bottle to steady himself against a tree. Ah. Perhaps the alcohol _was_ having an effect on him after all. Nevertheless, he looks over his shoulder and under his nose back at the king. “You were _always _going to be the leader the humans needed, Anduin Wrynn. But your cruelty to me has made me want nothing more than to forget I ever trusted you.”

Light. He was beginning to sound so childish. And so what if he was? If Anduin could cry and feel sorry for himself, then Wrathion could too, even if crying was the last thing he feels like doing at this very moment.

Perhaps Anduin shares the same notion, rubbing the heel of his palm underneath his eyes with a long, shaking breath. And for even longer, they linger in silence together.

It was starting to feel as if Anduin Wrynn would continue to be spiteful after all. Until he speaks, and his words are still slurred, but audible. “You’re right, Wrathion.”

The dragon narrows his eyes at him. “About which part?”

“About bein’ locked up and punched in the face,” Anduin says, turning his profile away again.

Wrathion growls, much louder and perhaps much bestial than intended. But Anduin holds his hand up, and he, reluctantly, lets him speak. “An’ that I do owe you an apology. The way I’ve acted toward you was wrong from the start. For all the years I’ve devoted to diplomacy… barrin’ its practices because of my own personal feelings was unfair to you.

“And I’m sorry.” For as drunk as he was, when their eyes meet again, Wrathion could see the fragments of clarity, of sincerity, in Anduin’s blues. “I can’t ask you to forgive me when I have not been--”

“I do.” Wrathion is just as surprised as the king is. But once the words have slipped free, the dragon can’t help but stick by them, groaning in exasperation as he rests his shoulder blades against the tree behind him. _Light and hells_. “Of course I forgive you, King Anduin. I wouldn’t have stayed in the Keep so long if I wasn’t so desperate to impress you with my work and mend our relationship.”

The king’s lips purse together. “Don’t use that word.”

Wrathion sighs. “Friendship, then. Our _friend-_ship.”

There. Anduin gives a satisfied nod, then receives the dragon’s tipsy laughter when he tries drinking from the forgotten-empty wine bottle. “… so is that it, then?” he braves to ask the king. “Are we friends?”

Anduin gives his own sigh. His fingers tap unevenly across the glass in his hand, thinking. “… yes. I think so. To be perfectly honest, Wrathion, I don’t think I have the energy for us to start over.”

“That’s fair.” And it sends a pleasant warmth through Wrathion’s chest that has nothing to do with the wine. He’s thoughtful for a moment, his eyes staring across the forest around and below them, bathed in deep blues and the glow of moonlight. Long ago, they would share nights like this. Sometimes just talking, and sometimes not saying anything at all, but always over a game of dice or hand tricks.

And Wrathion doesn’t trust his human body to maneuver sitting back down on the ground again without falling over. So he turns to Anduin fully, and announces suddenly, “Do you remember, King Anduin Wrynn,” he begins, “when I promised you the adventures I could take you upon, when I am grown?”

A wary, squinting stare answers him. But Wrathion swears he can see the muscles around Anduin’s mouth struggling to keep a smile off his face. “Perhaps. Something to do with disappointing my father?”

Wrathion preens. “I believe the phrase I used was, ‘_aging him ten years in one night_’.”

A drunken laugh bubbles from Anduin’s lips. It was far less hysterical now from the emotional hurdle they had just crossed, even as the king’s words go soft again. “I remember. I wish he was still here for me to disappoint him.”

“You would only be disappointing him in one way tonight, dear king.” Wrathion knows this to be true, and warmth in him blossoms even further at Anduin’s smile and watery eyes. The humans _did_ have a wonderful man on their throne. “Never think it is anything more than because you choose to keep wonderful company such as myself.”

A snort from the human, and then, what few leaves stuck their trees rustle and fall to the earth as Wrathion transforms into a large, ebony drake before him. As Anduin steadies himself to stand, a dark wing is stretched as a welcoming invitation to the space just underneath the base of his long neck.

Even as he starts to climb, Anduin can’t help but ask, “Are you sure about this?”

“Just hold on tight, O drunken one,” Wrathion teases through the deep rumble of his voice. “Lest the ghost of your father decides to haunt me for all eternity for dropping you.”

And Anduin laughs.

* * *

Any doubt that Wrathion himself might not fare a short flight while intoxicated is immediately soothed by the crisp, sobering night air on his face. His wings stretch far on either side of him as the rest of his body dips to the right, then swiftly to the left. Behind him, Anduin Wrynn’s startled shouts of jubilation spur him into an extra burst of speed across the mountain peaks.

He has the mind not the travel far, of course. But grazing the tips of tall pines with his claws becomes just as tempting as bursting through the black clouds in a burst of wings and teeth, and even more so every time his passenger gives a celebratory whoop. Just how high has the king climbed the heavens, when all the world will stop at nothing to bury him in the ground?

A stretch of his draconic neck allows him to spy Anduin’s face, still flush from the effects of booze, as well as the red tips of his ears and nose from the night’s air. Their eyes meet, and Wrathion quickly looks ahead, but not before spying the king’s enchanted grin. “Faring well back there?” he asks him.

“Yeah,” Anduin replies informally. Wrathion could feel his arms wrapped tight around his neck and his heels dug into the dragon’s scales, luckily without the strength to do any harm. He has to shout over the wind to carry on the conversation. “Is this as big as you’re going to get?”

Wrathion’s laugh rumbles underneath Anduin’s chest. “I certainly hope not. If I could carry you a_nd_ my agents to Stormwind, I would have done so by now. Save us the exhaustion of this whole kidnapping problem.”

Any word or sound the king might have made in reply is lost to the sharp whistle of the wind around them. Wrathion does a loop in the clear sky, earning a yell and then a peel of laughter from the human on top of him. He does so again, his deep, draconic rumble joining in the carefree sound.

It was a wonderful night. No arguing, no attacks to fend themselves against. Even the wine was an enjoyable experience, only in ways of fueling this carefree moment of theirs together.

The dragon feels a hand on the soft scales of his neck the same moment he hears Anduin’s soft voice speak to him again. “Hey. Wrathion?”

A red eye peeks at him. “Hm?”

“I’m going to throw up.”

An emergency landing on a cliff-side commences just in time for the king to do good on his word. Wrathion, now in his human form, politely keeps his back turned as Anduin retches into an unsuspecting shrubbery. As funny as the whole ordeal was, the last thing he needs is to comment on the human’s hubris and earn the ire of a nasty hangover.

When the king’s stomach is finally empty, Anduin stumbles into a sit on a loose stone with his head in his hands. _Now_ his hair was disheveled, and were it not for the stench of his bile, Wrathion might have found the whole thing endearing. He joins him on an adjacent rock, the rest of the Alteracs stretched far and wide in front of them both.

It takes several minutes for Anduin to unearth his face, though he keeps his elbows on his knees and chin in his hands; no doubt he finds keeping his head up taxing right now. It’s why Wrathion can’t help teasing him, just a little bit. “So is that a ‘no’ for a round two?”

The king slowly, deliberately, narrows his eyes at him. “When I get home,” he says, just as slow, “I am putting a prohibition in place.”

Wrathion laughs, but Anduin continues, his grave tone only making the dragon laugh harder. “I’m serious. The royal wine cellars? Gone. The orchards in Elwynn? Fire. Immediately. All of it.”

Wrathion can barely contain his chortling. “Your majesty,” he wheezes, “you are… destined to carry out your family’s legacy of ill-born rioting yet.”

Anduin just makes a non-committal noise and buries his face away again. It would be some time before he would agree to anymore flying. So Wrathion stays quiet, looking back out on the landscape in front of him. The mountains were covered in their usual snow, with only the smallest earth-brown ridges jutting between. There were no homes, no mines, not even signs of the Sundering. Only Azeroth as she always was: Defiant, and here, safe. The stone beneath Wrathion’s hands tell him so.

And yet he could also hear the faintest whispers. His first reaction is to look to Anduin, expectant of a conversation he might have missed. Yet the king hadn’t moved, still burying a nasty ache behind his eyes into the palm of his hands.

Cautious, the dragon rests his own hand on the stone beneath him again. And there it was, unmistakable: The whispers he had known for many a year, but were never strong enough to penetrate his will. N’zoth would not give up, however. Not for as long as the God still lived.

If it could not be Wrathion, he thinks gravely, then it would be Erythian. It would be Anduin, and soon, every living thing on this planet.

Just as a cold panic starts to seize him, something un-Godly like reaches the dragon’s ears. He whirls his head to Anduin’s uncovered face-- much too fast-- but the influenced king doesn’t seem to notice. Wrathion realizes it _was_ him to speak aloud this time. “Pardon?”

“I said ‘thank you’,” Anduin replies in a murmur. “For flying me around and stuff.”

He didn’t seem all to happy to say it out loud. The panic in Wrathion’s heart recedes to welcome a small twinge of satisfaction instead; so it _was_ going to take some time for the king to be completely civil towards him. But instead of waving the fact in front of him, Wrathion only smiles. “Not at all. I intended to keep my promise, at least one day.”

The king nods. He, too, gathers up the willpower to regard the mountain range in front of them. “S’was a good day for it.”

“Indeed it was.”

They stay like that until Anduin gives the word that he’s ready for be flown again. Of course, he barely takes two steps upon standing before his stomach churns again and forces him to retch into another bush. Wrathion assures him it is alright to stay where they are, and even sets fire to a small bundle of dried branches between where they rest. Anduin groans and protests, but ultimately submits to a heavy, drunken slumber on the stone not a few minutes later.

Wrathion stays where he is, watching the king with his chin perched in his hands. For the rest of the night, he lets N’zoth’s taunting whispers be drowned out by the sound of the human’s steady breaths.


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they wait for rescue, Wrathion and the High King mull over N'Zoth's influence over the remaining black dragonflight-- and the planet.

Neither of them remember much of what happened the previous night. It certainly would have been a daunting task to secure Anduin onto Wrathion’s back and into the safety of the manor again, but neither one of them had any recollection about collapsing into their own cots and waking up in the horrendous state of their askewed leathers.

One thing was for certain, Anduin Wrynn was not yet in the state to act dignified. The moment wakefulness was upon him, the king groaned loudly, turning his back to Wrathion on the other side of the room and burying his head under any pillow or sheet he could blindly grasp. Pausing in his own morning ritual, the dragon throws one more pillow at him. He then barked a single laugh at the dexterous skill the king possessed to catch it, watching it immediately disappear under his hangover cocoon. No other movement comes within, and Wrathion leaves him be.

Word had not yet come from Valeera or Stormwind. Perhaps Ravenholdt could have one more day of upholding its reputation of a fortress that was as impregnable as it was elusive. Their extraction was of importance, yes; but Wrathion could not help feeling a bit of pride over his old home.

Of Fahrad's old home, a little voice reminds him- Less malicious than the Whispers of last evening, but a sting nevertheless.

When the afternoon rolls around with still no news nor Anduin Wrynn's wakefulness, he decides to solve the latter himself. The king squawks and kicks blindly under the covers when Wrathion sits upon it, but unluckily for him, Wrathion could make himself heavy if he wanted to. And he was, presently, very heavy indeed, because he was sitting in the room in his drake form.

Anduin knows this the moment the barracks bed creaks loudly and he feels two long, muscular forearms fold casually across his legs. He claws his way out from underneath his hoard and scowls deep underneath a cloud of bedhead. "_What?_"

Wrathion didn't answer him-- couldn't answer him, because of the small whelpling he was holding by the scruff of its fatty neck between his teeth. Wrathion opens his mouth, and Erythian bounces into the king's lap with a jubilant shrill. "Your assassin has yet to report," he says in his draconic rumble. "So, I thought you might be interested in discussing the state of this one with me. I believe enough time to observe him has passed to understand some measure of his adaption to our timeline."

Obviously, the king would much rather go back to sleep. He manages to squirm his legs out from underneath Wrathion's body to fold and perch his arms atop them, keeping his hand held aloft in one hand. He sleepily squints down at the whelp sniffing him. "Alright. Let's discuss."

He watches as Wrathion removes his massive form from the bed. When Erythian turns around and makes a protesting shrill, the larger dragon lays on the floor and purchases his large chin on the mattress instead. A blazing red eye watches Erythian calm and start exploring the bedding again. The sound in his long throat vibrates like a hum. "The good news is, I was correct about the chronomancy surrounding his aging rate. There should be no more Bronze magic influencing him-- Otherwise, he would be about the size of an Aspect come morrow."

"Mhm." Anduin was using two hands to keep his head up now. "That's good."

Wrathion pauses to squint at him. "Are you alright?" he asks. “You sound as if you are dying.”

"I feel as if I am," the king sighs. "… I'm also trying to be nicer, but right now my head and my bowels ask nothing more of me than to Smite you immediately."

Wrathion beams, earning a dangerous blue eye peeking from underneath Anduin's hanging curtain of hair. "Aw. You are upholding the truce of our rekindled friendship."

"Smite is a concentration spell I haven’t the mental stamina for."

The large dragon at the end of his bed preens briefly before settling his gaze back on Erythian. He continues, "The unfortunate news is, given his age and the realities I have pulled him through... I am unsure of how vulnerable he is to corruption. Especially as of late."

That seems to rouse Anduin out of his pity party with a pointed frown. He watches the whelp wander from edge to edge, the creature pacing as if uncertain of whether or not he's brave enough to attempt the short drop. It's all very cute, but acknowledging that the creature might be unawares of his own demise puts a damper on the thought. "Most of the Old Gods of the Black Empire that have done Azeroth harm are long gone by now. The only one left is..."

The sigh that leaves Wrathion's nostrils warms the human's face. "N'Zoth. Yes. An old enemy of our kind's."

"And an enemy of ours," Anduin adds. He gives the dragon an imploring look; the kind that Wrathion is much more accustomed to giving others. It even surprises him when the king questions him just the same. "Tell me-- what exactly do you know of the Old Gods? It occurs to me I’ve never asked, despite how long I’ve known you to present them as the bane to your goals.”

The dragon's reptilian maw stretches thin like a frown. "I know many things; as was burdened upon me in my creation. They are as old as Azeroth itself, like the Nether and the Legion. But like the Legion, no matter how vast, they can be defeated by even the most determined of mortals. Such has been the way of your forces for years.

"The Alliance, the Horde, the Crusade, the Legionfall..." Wrathion taps his claws against the floor. "In any case-- Their influence is stronger in my dragonflight because of Neltharion's acceptance of them, thus tainting us all as children of his reign as Earth-Warder. But they can affect more than just dragons. Any living thing can become vulnerable, until their corruption of a Titan destroys us all."

He watches Anduin nod, his eyes widening when the king says, "So I am aware, as I believe N'Zoth's voice reached me last night."

Wrathion whirls at him. He exclaims, “_What?_”

King Anduin's fingers curl into his palms, his eyes downcast and fixed on the whelpling. "Do not be alarmed. I am not felled by corruption, but... With its power growing, and now Azshara--"

"I heard it, too."

Now it was Anduin's turn to be shocked. Wrathion sighs. "And no, I am not influenced, either. Just because I hear them does not mean I am tainted, just as you."

It feels like an eternity their gazes fix on each other, before they simultaneously fall on Erythian. Wrathion needn't say anything, not when the king addresses it first. "But for a black dragon that's just born, and much more vulnerable because of N’Zoth’s bargain, I imagine he is at much more of a risk?"

Wrathion nods. "Exactly.

"Not to worry, however. When we return to Stormwind, I still have the elixir in which I used to help awaken him." Wrathion pushes his massive form into a stand on his haunches. In a plume of smoke, his four-legged stance becomes two, standing before the human as one himself. Erythian chitters excitedly. "It can stave off any harmful magical effects until he is old enough for me to be absolutely certain of his state. There is enough magic in him to communicate his name, his emotions and even conjure some of his own flame… but to the degree of his corruption, I cannot sense as easily as I have in his slain flight.”

There must be something in his features he doesn’t catch right away; there was that imploring look from Anduin Wrynn again, his slanted gaze searching, but not disdainful. Wrathion realizes with masked dismay that the small sting in his words was something of the very same he felt thinking of Fahrad this morning, or as it had been last evening when he pushed the snow aside in the courtyard for any sign of his remains.

He was showing regret. This much he has said aloud to Anduin Wrynn in Stormwind, to earn the refuge of his secrecy and justify the bane of his efforts they had just spoken of. But how strongly has the Dragonslayer ever felt the gravity of his legacy to bare its weight to others?

“You still haven’t told me how you made this miracle elixir of yours,” Anduin Wrynn finally says. His frown isn’t as deep as Wrathion was used to. Scrutinizing, yes, but the dragon finds himself detesting showing of anything among the realm of_ vulnerability _for the king’s interrogation to be handled so delicately. “I know of the Sands. But when you needed Onyxia’s remains--”

“I have told you before, King Anduin,” Wrathion cuts him off, “those are secrets to kept among dragons.”

“And the only living dragon involved in this is the one in front of you,” Anduin counters. A brow raises. “Unless there are more you are doing dealings with?”

Wrathion’s spine straightens, from vertebra to vertebra. “I have told you, of Ebyssian--”

“That your taking of the egg was done unknowing to him.”

“The Bronze flight watch me every hour--”

“Then they are doing a poor job of bringing their surveillance to fruition.”

The two men stare each other down. Barely a day of mended relations, and it already feels like their distrustful bickering has arisen again.

Alas… they _are_ supposed to be talking about Erythian’s likelihood of stability. Finally, Wrathion groans. “_Light_, fine. Here: You are already familiar with how I conducted myself in the Tavern. Some blood magic, my own essence-- these are things readily available to me that I need not the services of agents to fetch. But over the years, the few I did keep alongside me aided my search for… less common reagents.”

He sits on the other end of King Anduin’s bed, much to the delight of the whelp that crawls forward to tug on his sleeve with his teeth. He is ignored as Wrathion continues, a finger beginning to draw an imaginary map on the bed’s sheets. “First, ancient power is needed to push back the efforts of an ancient evil-- the Old Gods, that is. In the tundra of Northrend, I scoured the purified ruins of Ulduar. On Argus-- and how I _loathed_ to tread on Legion soil-- we gathered the healing properties of the flora found on Mac’Aree. The untarnished waters of the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. Hyjal, the Caverns...”

Passing a quick gaze back up at the king was a mistake; he could see Anduin Wrynn parsing the timeline in his head, the corners of his mouth turning deep in that way that Wrathion knows to expect. A reminder that the dragon was present for the Legion’s assault, and did not come to his old friend’s aid.

Wrathion draws one more line across the linen. “And the most time-consuming of all these feats: Earning the trust of the Black dragons that reside beyond the Dark Portal. The brood there have made their home in Blade’s Edge, the children of Sabellian. He is a skilled alchemist, and the last living direct descendant of Deathwing. Clever of him not to follow his father back to Azeroth; they remain untouched by madness there, even after all this time.”

The next time he meets Anduin Wrynn’s gaze, the king looks… tongue-in-cheek. Wrathion huffs at him. “_Yes_, I have known there were dragons in _Outland_. Albeit not until after the Iron Horde fiasco, but-- Shut up.” (“I didn’t say anything.”) “Anyway, with Sabellian’s skill in alchemy, combined with that dragon blood and essence of his that is much older and much more powerful than my own… he was able to assist in finalizing the solution. Erythian’s egg means much more than just bringing an old fossil back to life. It means being one step closer to expelling the madness from my flight once and for all.”

Anduin Wrynn lets his eyes shift from the imaginary lines to the whelp himself. His palm rests over his chin and his mouth, pensive. “A purified dragonflight. I would agree that that would be amazing, Wrathion, but… how many of you are left?”

‘After all the ones you killed?’ It didn’t need to be said aloud, and Wrathion refuses to let his grief show a second time. “There is myself and Erythian, of course. Ebyssian, and Sabellian and his brood...”

The dragon taps his chin as he trails off. “I admit-- and the younger me would have words to mince toward my criticism of his efforts-- that it _is _entirely probable for there to be more Black dragons hiding on Azeroth. That nest was discovered buried in Highmountain after all, and who is to say there aren’t clever dragons like Onyxia and Nefarian doing less-than-nefarious deeds elsewhere?

“It is not a large flight, or family, but… it is what I owe them.” He lifts his head and frowns back at Anduin. “What’s more, I believe the tools I have gathered can benefit Azeroth’s efforts against N’Zoth as well. Given time, a few resources, means of production...”

The shift from dragons to an armies’ worth of efforts throws the king off-guard, but Anduin doesn’t look in the least troubled by it. Not until one more topic of conversation arises. “I believe we will have to make it back to Stormwind first. And you not to be put in chains again.”

“Yes, yes.” Wrathion makes a disgruntled noise in his throat. He leers at the amusement that flits across the king’s face. “Which makes me wonder if our captors were not simply the followers of the God itself, determined to stop any progress toward its defeat. Light knows how often cultists spring forth whenever a disaster arises.”

Anduin makes a face. “I don’t like that.”

“Same.” He pulls his arm forward until Erythian’s teeth dislodge from his sleeve, earning a whining noise as the small dragon plops to the bedding. “I hate to think of a _cult_ spreading word of my presence even more so.”

Anduin Wrynn hums. Wrathion watches him remove himself from his sit to crawl back under the blankets, but not bury his way into a comfy burrow. He simply rests his head against the pillows and turns on his side away from the dragon, murmuring in surprise as Erythian crawls over the shape of his body to join him against his chest.

After a second or two of blatant debating, and the king slings his arm over the whelp like a sleeping cat. Wrathion’s nostrils give an indignant flare. Keeping the jealousy out of his voice makes it unintentionally _curt _as he asks, “Do you still need time to recover, your majesty?”

“Yes,” Anduin replies, sighing a bit. “S’my fault, though. Shouldn’t have drank so much.”

Ah. That hangover. Any softness arising in Wrathion is immediately bit away by the sight of Erythian perching his chin on the king’s shoulder, however.

His green eyes meet Wrathion’s. Then his tail-end gives a delighted wiggle. The ungrateful little creature was _comfy_, all snuggled in the king’s arms like that.

Wrathion gave him _life_, and the little creature was _boasting_ about how tiny he still was to earn unsolicited Anduin Wrynn Time.

“But thank you,” the king says, still on his side with the bastard against his chest. The dragon couldn’t see his face, but… he knew the sincerity that was there. “I know you were trying to make me feel better after everything that has happened. Even if the night went poorly, I appreciate that we talked.”

“… yes,” Wrathion says in return. “As am I.”

He adds after a few moments, “I would not say it went poorly. Perhaps at first. But you did not berate me for my honesty, and for that I am. Grateful.”

The mound that was Anduin Wrynn’s blanketed form moves slowly up and down with his even breaths, levitating the whelp’s satisfied face with it. Erythian finally closes his eyes, and when the king says no more, Wrathion convinces himself to be content by letting his words go unheard by the human's slumber.

But he hears him speak speak just as Wrathion places his hand on the barrack’s threshold. “Thanks for letting me disappoint my father one last time. As a kid; not a monarch.” And his old friend grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This was supposed to be up like five hours ago, but I kept taking breaks between doc polishing to pet my cat. Short filler chapters means LONG KICK-BUTT CHAPTERS NEXT. (HOPEFULLY.)
> 
> Thank you for all the nice comments on this fic!! Especially the ones saying 'this is canon now'. It means a lot to me since I just straight up have NOT been paying attention to the bfa plot since 8.0. I'm still chipping through this, and hope everyone is staying safe!


	18. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrathion and Anduin are rescued from Ravenholdt.

It’s sound that returns to her senses first, though the noises around Taelia feel muddled, submerged underwater. It takes ages before she can force her eyes to open, and even longer to register the blackness she sees as the stone floor beneath her. She rolls her head to the side and swallows back a groan.

Her body decides to catch her up to speed before her mind can; any memory she tries to recollect is immediately bat aside by the ache of body parts making themselves known to her returned consciousness. The cool but rough stone beneath her was no longer a comfort to the blow she took to the head, and she could feel a terrible bruising between her shoulder blades. After a few hard blinks and a few more swallowing motions that trigger that uncomfortable click in her jaws, her ears finally pop to allow the flow of conversation in the room to reach her.

Jaina and Genn were similarly picking themselves off the floor, while the sin’dorei woman that arrived with them-- Valeera, she recalls-- was checking over the sickly black-veined dagger wound in her arm. Taelia realizes she is scrutinizing her for too long, the heat rushing to her face making her lightheaded. Her head throbs when she quickly turns it away.

All that was left was Mathias Shaw, who she sees being looked over by a worried SI:7 worgen agent with an eye patch and salt-and-pepper fur. The spymaster’s tunic had a tear in the side, what little of the wound there Taelia could see matching Valeera’s own.

They had been ambushed, with the rogues taken down by poison. The swear that escapes Taelia is small and scratchy as she at last registers the sight of the open, empty cell doors meant to hold Wrathion’s agents.

Slowly making her way to a stand, she listens as the worgen continues speaking with the spymaster still collecting his wits on the floor. “We realized something was amiss when no one came up. We didn’t see any of the guards who followed you leave, and we at least expected one of you to come up for a meal, or the lavatories...--”

Shaw draws up his hand, which the worgen at first takes as him being silenced. But with its lingering and a pointed look from the man, the agent quickly assists him in standing. “B-but, a guard tower reported their gryphon roost being stolen just minutes ago after their knocked-out stablehands came to,” he continues. “We are gathering more gryphons and their riders to follow their trail, and soldiers to send on foot to secure the king. They promise to report back hourly.”

“No,” Jaina says. Bearing her weight on her staff, it takes her only a breath to righten her posture and regard the rest of the room’s occupants. “We cannot sit here any longer and wait for word of King Anduin’s safety. We are following them to Ravenholdt.”

Behind her, Genn helps the spy Valeera to her feet, giving a determined growl from his still-shifted snout. “Agreed. Deploy the riders at once. We and the soldiers will find a sure crossroads to portal through-- an entry point we know the criminals will pass before they lead us to the location in the mountain range. They convened before in Silverpine?”

He points the question at Valeera, who nods as the worgen agent scurries up the stairwell to carry out his orders. “Silverpine was where I met the dragon’s agents, but they will be flying now; they could come into Alterac at any angle.”

Taelia couldn’t help studying the elf long and hard again, and she notes Genn doing the same in his close proximity to her. They were unaware of Anduin having a sin’dorei agent-- an _assassin_\-- up until a few minutes (a few hours?) ago, but Jaina and Mathias Shaw had yet to show anything outside of their recognition of her as an ally. She had been resourceful in the short moments of battle, and she was also friendly, and pretty, and tall for an elven woman, and now was d_efinitely_ not the time to be thinking of those as reasons to trust her, Taelia. “What about the Highlands?” she asks quickly. “There used to be mage towers between it and the Wetlands’ borders before the Cataclysm, right?” She looks to Jaina. “Would that work?”

The mage frowns back, her face deep in thought at whatever cartography she was visualizing in her head. “There would still be a lot of ground to cover between there and the Alteracs… but we won’t know which direction Ravenholdt lies until the riders get there first.”

Genn can only say what everyone is is thinking: “It’s the best we got. Between whatever injuries Anduin has suffered and the intent of Wrathion’s people--”

“Oh!” Valeera suddenly bounds herself between the group, planting her fist into her palm. “Right! Right, right, right-- Remember when I said Wrathion might not be the bad guy here? I’m almost one-hundred percent certain of that after this ‘getting jumped’ stuff. Maybe ninety-six percent.”

Genn’s furry brows fall flat, that earlier look of uncertainty in the throne room falling into a familiar distrust Taelia couldn’t help but share, no matter how attractive this elven woman might be. “So I recall your brief case of his and Windrunner’s innocence,” Genn says. “I still have yet to see how, when this, ‘getting jumped’ was assisted by his own agents.”

“I mean.” Valeera’s own long eyebrows curve quizzically in places Taelia didn’t think was anatomically possible. “When his other agents and I found the boys-- the good ones with them in Ravenholdt right now-- the Black Prince was in worse shape than the king was. They had him chained and everything. Maybe tricking people into thinking you’re the victim is a common thing here and there, you let yourself get beat up a lil bit for show-- but what I saw was an overkill. The guy could barely walk.

“The king doesn’t trust him much either, except I’m pretty sure it’s got nothing to do with what happened in Stormwind.” An unspoken agreement arose about leaving the cellar and continuing Valeera’s explanation on the move, which she does gladly as they make their way out of the SI:7 building. “Wrathion didn’t know who was attacking the keep or his agents. He said one of them, Moss, was killed, except then he realized he wasn’t dead? From, ah-- those gemstones they keep on their foreheads that I found while tracking Anduin. And we can establish that Sylvanas has nothing to do with this because there was a _mixed bag of trained rogues_ taking us out down there.”

Taelia could see Genn and Jaina sharing a glance, but it’s Shaw who speaks up. “Non-Forsaken races doesn’t necessarily rule out a hired kidnapping, but… I am familiar with how Wrathion’s blood magic network functions. A handful of his Black Talons came to us seeking employment after he supposedly disbanded them just before his disappearance. The two agents we held in custody had theirs missing.”

Valeera’s long ears stick up straight. “Ooh. Spooky.”

The five of them pick up the pace all the way to the awaiting footmen outside the keep bridge. Jaina excuses herself to gather her things in her quarters while Genn, human again, turns to Shaw. “We will extract the king and the black dragon, and I will trust you to oversee matters here. No visitors, and keep the councilmen in their homes. Understood?”

The spymaster gives a curt nod. “Understood.”

It’s Taelia the old king turns to next, and she braces herself for the same confines to her room. Or worse, to find some excuse for her Fordragon lineage to be allowed to sit on the throne to wait while-- “You’ll want to wear your armor, I assume, Lady Fordragon.”

She blinks quickly. Genn was right, though-- she was in her simple leathers, and she had left her claymore and cloak behind in the prison hold. But that could only mean, “I’m coming with you?”

She could swear Genn Greymane almost looked _fond _underneath the impatient scowl he was trying to twist his beard into. He makes an equally-impatient gesture toward the gates. “So long as you do not keep us waiting.”

Taelia could only beam. “I’ll grab my hammer as well.”

* * *

Someone warm was pressing themselves against Anduin’s chest. It was comfortable against the thick leather he fell asleep in, but the exposed skin of his forearms made it sweltering. He tries to squirm away, but the intruder follows him, pushing their scaly hide against him and butting their short, nubbed horns against his jawline. He rolls on his opposite side, mumbling his protests. The creature follows him.

“Wrathion.” More headbutts, and then, a slimy tongue licking ceaselessly at his nose. Anduin startles awake in an instant, bracing himself on his elbows and snapping again, “_Wrathion--_”

– was not at all who was staring back at him. Erythian wiggles in delight at being acknowledged at last underneath Anduin between the space of his balanced forearms. Erythian licks his nose again, only making the king sigh. He takes a moment to look around the room, making sure no one was around to hear his mistake, then gently nudges the dragon aside for Anduin to lay on his back.

The good news is, his alcohol-induced nausea seemed to have finally subside. There was still a light throbbing between his eyes, but he could ignore it if he relaxed them at some nondescript detail in the ceiling above him. Erythian had enough of being asleep too, if his prowling and sniffing along the bed was anything to go by. Now that Anduin was no longer soaking up his warmth, it was all too easy to remember their predicament of being stranded in the peaks of the Alterac mountains at the borders of winter.

The smell of something cooking ruthlessly reminded him how _famished_ he was as well. The group had decided to forgo any of the grains still stored in the hold, just in case. He remembers them sharing the last of the traveling rations before he sent Valeera to Stormwind, and then…? Light, of course he handled last night’s the wine so badly. A sharp pain in his stomach only confirms he was running on empty for almost a full day now.

Erythian leads the way as soon as it’s apparent Anduin was getting out of bed. He follows the dragon through the halls and into the kitchen, surprised to find Left and Right passing dishes between one another in front of a stone spit-roast.

On the end of the assembly line was Wrathion, who beams with a cooked haunch of some animal on his plate. “There you are! I had a feeling dinner would get you out of bed. It’s always worked before.”

A loud stomach rumble answers Anduin for him, and he doesn’t refuse the plate Left puts into his hands. The hint of spices that wafts up at the motion nearly makes him salivate.

“I could have helped cook,” he says in earnest, watching Right crush some bone marrow into a separate pot over a grate. He has to step around the whelpling running around in circles on the floor, pawing and nipping at Left’s boot until she growls and drops a smaller bone for him to catch in his teeth. Erythian scurries away with it immediately. “When did you go hunting?”

Right smiles over her shoulder at him. “Left found the deer this morning while you two were still sleeping. We were going to cook for both of you, but Wrathion wanted to show us his secret cooking stash.”

“They are _imports _I thought would make the deer better,” Wrathion corrects with a bristle. “I left many things here after Deathwing’s defeat, some of which just happen to be herbs and spices. I do not _cook_.”

The agents just hum or shrug, and Right brings two bowls of stew to the rickety dining table they shared. Wrathion continues to huff, but Anduin isn’t paying him any mind. He digs into his meal with the abandon of a young soldier having barely survived his first brush with death. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s felt this way; he can’t remember how many times he’s been kidnapped, held for ransom, dangled in front of a dragon’s open maw or some Light-forsaken monster. He’d be foolish to expect this incident they’ve escaped from would be his last, either. N’Zoth’s whispering would make sure of that.

Anduin only becomes aware of his less-than-becoming table manners by the time he’s gobbled up enough to satisfy the empty ache in his belly, making him slow down and follow Wrathion’s line of sight to the whelp still gnawing away at his share on the floor. He doesn’t think he could ever recall a time he had seen Wrathion eat in his dragon form when he was Erythian’s size. Did he prefer taking care of himself in his human form? Does he have misgivings about showing his draconic nature in front of others?

Suddenly remembering the embarrassing ordeal of mistaking Erythian’s cuddling for his elder brother, Anduin resumes devouring his dinner as quickly as possible. He ignores a raised eyebrow from Wrathion next to him, as orc, humans and dragons continue dinner in relative silence.

With the light of the autumn day fading fast, it isn’t long until Ravenholdt grows dark with nothing but the humble glow of its braziers within. Unless Stormwind was going to come to their rescue in the middle of the night with little visibility through the darkness and the snow, they would have another day of waiting. Anduin, who unluckily was more awake now after sleeping the _current_ day away, decides to make the most of his renewed energy by helping clean up after their meal, along with another bath and a fresh, warmer ensemble of Blacktalon armor. The latter aids him well as he finds himself once again in the center of the hold’s courtyard.

Whatever this place once was to Wrathion, or Left and Right, its vacancy would surely fall to the elements just as its exterior had. What scraps of weaponry Anduin finds were rusted to brittleness. The remains of a garden underneath one of the window sills had become overrun by Wintersbite, too thick in its prime season to hope to cut down.

Anduin just barely stops his boot from coming into contact with the line in the snow Wrathion had drawn the other day. The disturbance was made with the purpose of looking for something, and there had not been a snowfall thick enough to bury the evidence. Though he expects nothing, Anduin draws another line just beneath the first. Yet the only thing he can make out in the dark is the now-exposed frozen earth.

That, and the faint glow of two red eyes. Wrathion was watching him, but the king could not make out anything about his demeanor but his downward gaze as he approached. A sigh leaves his nostrils, making a visible cloud between them.

“I was told this place was much older than I am,” Wrathion says. “It used to be operated by human mercenaries who offered services of refining the blade of any assassin who wanted to study under them, and in return assist in undermining Ravenholdt’s competitors. Then, I paid them to be loyal to me.”

The two of them stand side by side before those marks in the snow. It was where Wrathion was looking now, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes lidded. He obviously felt like he needed to say something, and Anduin doesn’t stop him. “They would not listen to me at first, of course. You cannot just claim to be the very last, pure black dragon and expect everyone to bow at your feet. It was the Grand Master of Ravenholdt who needed to convince them that I was worthy of following. I was surprised with how easy it was for him to trust me.

“But trust me he did, and soon, I had Ravenholdt’s unwavering support in carrying out the death of Neltharion.” He levels Anduin with a look that made him appear wiser beyond the few years the king knows he’s been on this earth. And at the same time, befitting of the millenniums’ worth of Titan knowledge programmed into him. “While rogues and champions fought against Deathwing’s forces, it was the Grand Master who trained me in our time together. The way of the rogue was fascinating to me, how agile humanoids could make their bodies become. It did not matter that I was just a whelp, or an experiment. I confided these things to Fahrad in moments I felt truly frustrated, and he did not berate me for my childishness, or my… unnatural way of being. For whatever reason, time and time again... I always had his trust.”

A pang of dread runs up Anduin’s throat. He knows where this is going, and he knows it was years too late to stop it.

“I killed him.” Wrathion’s voice doesn’t waver, and neither do his eyes holding Anduin’s own. “When Deathwing was defeated, he congratulated me on my victory. I was last black dragon left, the slate of my flight wiped clean. Or, so he hoped I would believe that to be true. He revealed his true form to me when it was clear I did not.

“I made sure his bones were destroyed, but… this is where it happened.” Another sigh escapes him. Anduin remains silent, and the dragon breaks their gaze. “Less than a week after, one of my agents reported the red dragonflight came here in search of me. Any who remained within Ravenholdt were killed until Alexstrasza was certain I was no longer on the continent. It wasn’t long until our ship wound up on the shores on Pandaria, and I met Tong, and you.”

“Yes,” Anduin says. He’s surprised by the evenness of his own voice. “You had made yourself at home on the Stairs long before my arrival.”

Wrathion nods, a smile just barely ghosting his lips. “I knew nothing about you. The Tavern had gotten word that the Prince of Stormwind, the brave hero who confronted Garrosh Hellscream and survived, wanted to grace Tong’s humble abode for a meal and a bed. With the way the patrons tripped over themselves preparing for your arrival, I expected someone… a little more brawny to walk through that door.”

It felt inappropriate to laugh, seeing how the dragon had just shared the bleak history of the ground they stood upon with him just seconds prior. Anduin musters a smile instead. “To be fair, I did just lose fifteen pounds when we met.”

The statement obviously catches Wrathion off-guard. He whirls his face to Anduin, brows raised in obvious confusion. It’s only when the king hoists his right knee and knocks on the wooden shin beneath the leathers does understanding dawn on the dragon. And he laughs. And before Anduin knows it, he’s laughing along with him. He feels the taut string of tension between them go lax, every so slightly, with the sound.

“All the same,” Wrathion says, “you were nothing like I expected. For the first time in my life as someone with a loyal following of agents, you were the first person I met who _challenged _me, argued with me and got under my skin-- and you were supposed to be infamous as a pacifist. I believe it is your defiance that influenced Tong to start putting his foot down on my extravagant requests.”

“Tong,” Anduin sighs. Oh, he misses those days. “You owe that man an apology. A lot of apologies.”

The dragon gruffs beside him. Anduin shoves him lightly. “I mean it. The moment I was back home, I made sure my father sent him funds to repair the inn and replace the things you _broke_.”

“I was busy!” Wrathion protests. He shoves the king back, much harder, which only makes Anduin laugh once more. “I can-- _also_ send him gold when this is over with, if it will make you that happy.”

“I said an _apology_,” Anduin says. Alas, he only gets an indistinguishable whining noise in response, and even more the more the king presses. It was childish. It was soothing to listen to.

Wrathion eventually halts their squabble with a hand to Anduin’s shoulder. The sharpness of his gaze was dulled by the curve of a smile still on his face, and the roll of his eyes he gives to the king smirking back at him. He sighs. “If we do get through this, my king,” he says, “and you grant me my freedom after this whole debacle, I would-- be _inclined_ to visit Pandaria again. But only if you come with me.”

Anduin hums, pensive. “You still believe I can demand my way out of my responsibilities as a monarch?”

“Oh, I certainly do. If you’ve remained even half as stubborn as you were when we met, it should be a breeze.” Wrathion’s hand glides from the king’s shoulder to his chest, his gaze honest. “You deserve to fight for Azeroth just as much as anyone else. See the beauty it has to offer while we still can.”

“We?”

“Yes-- your armies and the Horde’s. Before, ah, N’Zoth taints it, of course.”

“Ah.”

That draconic red glow briefly disappears. “Yes.”

There was no longer any teasing between them. Wrathion falls just as silent as Anduin does. After a few moments, the dragon seems to remember to draw his hand away and back to his side. Similarly, Anduin feels a loss for anything to keep his own hands busy without a cane or blade within reach. There was hardly any light from the hold strong enough to illuminate the wilderness around them; the world was dark with his friend’s adverted gaze, and the quiet made the chilly air feel drier in his lungs.

It was that same quiet that alerts the men to a disturbance within it. Wrathion and Anduin turn their faces in the same direction of the highest mountain peak. There hadn’t been a single breeze all night, and the woods around them stood still with their snowy branches intact. The dragon can only take a single step forward before Anduin throws out an arm to stop him, the crunching of snow under their boots suddenly too deafening for the clues they were straining to listen for.

A voice in his head-- his own, N’Zoth’s, he wasn’t sure-- assures Anduin it is nothing but a wild animal, in the same instant an arrow flies through the air and bounces off the surface of his summoned holy barrier.

In the blink of an eye, the inky black woods were alight by torch fire. A dozen gryphons emerge from stone and tree to circle in on the men standing exposed in the courtyard. Anduin’s spell expands around him on instinct, and Wrathion leaps out of its way to surround himself in a veil of smoke and take to the air in his true form. The roar he unleashes is met with sporadic battle cries, then the sound of Left and Right running outside to fire their crossbow bolts unquestioningly at their new arrivals.

Another arrow bounces off of Anduin’s spell, causing him to back away in alarm as the impact leaves sparks. Some of the assailants’ weapons were set ablaze, he realizes, fiery arrows and raw spells taking aim at him, Wrathion, and the agents behind them. Most were extinguished the moment they hit the snow, leaving a melted path for Anduin to follow as he drops his barrier to regroup with the rogues standing on the hold’s landing.

“What the hell did you _do?_” Left snaps at him on arrival. She fires another bolt, but it misses its mark as the gryphon diverts with a protesting shrill.

Anduin throws up another shield to deflect a firebolt from their position, staring stupefied at the orc. “Me?”

“Those gryphons have your insignia, _your majesty_.”

Dread chills Anduin to the bone. He immediately imagines the worse, that Valeera couldn’t sway Jaina with the truth and that the manor was to be attacked on sight. He sees the panicked gryphons wearing the blue and gold Lion on their harnesses, confirming Left’s exasperated claim-- But he could not see his kingdom’s colors on their riders.

On the contrary. They wore leather, clearly of matching uniform with allegiance to neither king nor warchief; much like the rogues in Wrathion’s tale of bribery. “This isn’t the Alliance,” Anduin says.

A shout is ripped from them as a gryphon comes barreling into the trio. The beast squawks as it is left to fly blindly into the door and crash into the roof overhang. Its rider is much more tactful, abandoning the saddle at the last minute to land atop of Left and send them tumbling together through the rotted floorboards. Another comes for Right, just barely missing her with a swipe of their blade as they steer the beast into a loop back into the air. She fires bolt after bolt at them, until one finally lands true enough to make them lose their coordination and retreat further.

Beneath their feet, the sounds of Left’s snarls mingle with her attacker’s, blades coming together in deadly parries. With what little space there was, Anduin could only imagine they barely had room to wrestle on top of one another.

Right must have the same idea; she swears loudly, shoving at Anduin’s back along the perimeter of the manor. “Move!”

He could see Wrathion continuing the fight in the air. He was bigger than any single gryphon, but the sheer number of them could easily overtake his form. He takes out one of the beasts by grabbing it in his jaws and shaking vigorously, throwing the assailant off and sending the gryphon tumbling down to the earth after them. Anduin tries not to mourn too long over the injuries of his kingdom’s innocent feathered protectors. He breaks into a sprint to follow Right into the cover of a nearby shed.

Just as he’s about to ask if Right intended to hide him away like precious cargo, he feels the sharp end of a blade sink into his side and elicit a shout from him. He lashes out with righteous fury in the palm of his hands, and stumbles when the blade is pulled loose with his attackers disengagement. A dwarven woman bounds away from him with his blood on her dagger. Her familiar red hair glows from the Light in Anduin’s hands.

Brielle lunges for him again. The first blade is parried with a spell. The second grazes the back of his other hand, and the first comes swinging back for a narrow miss to his abdomen. The spell clutched in his fingers expands into a short-bursting nova of Light that gives him just enough leeway to free himself from being backed into the manor’s wall, making him instead fall into a dance of avoiding Brielle’s relentless advances in the open. She was flawlessly coordinated in the snow, but then, as a dwarf, of course she was.

More and more strikes start to land their mark, leaving Anduin bloodied as he throws up another barrier around himself to catch his breath. He could grab one of the least-broken swords in the courtyard. He had stopped moving to think and Brielle stopped with him, circling him for the moment he calls his spell down.

There was no time to think about why she was here as their enemy when another one of Wrathion’s roars shakes the air around him. The only thing he knows for certain is that Wrathion and him were waiting to be rescued, and they had made themselves a sitting target instead.

The golden walls of Anduin’s spell comes down around him, and Brielle takes the lunge-- only to stumble and curse down at her feet. Void tendrils held her in place as the king turns around and bolts for the crumbling half-walls of the training courtyard. He immediately falls to his knees to hide himself as his hands scramble in the snow for purchase on a hidden weapon. An old pike he picks up snaps in his hand. He finds a pommel with no blade, and cuts himself on its missing half not a second later. Now was NOT the time to be clumsy, making him swear at himself repeatedly in his head and out loud until finally, triumphant, he launches himself back on his feet with a rusted shortsword in his grip.

And uses it to immediately parry a blow from the kal’dorei waiting for him on the other side of the wall. Both of them look surprised at one another over the king’s reflexes, until they steel themselves to fight once again. The night elf’s long gait allows him to climb over the wall and resume trading blows with Anduin with ease. Anduin’s bloodied hand summons a spell in his palm, a spike of dark magic forming and throwing the rogue off-balance as it pierces his chest. A strike from Anduin’s sword disarms him after, just before the blunt-end connects with his face, and sends the rogue’s violet form sprawling in the pile of littered weaponry.

Anduin runs as fast as his legs will carry him, shortsword in hand and his joints burning hot as hellfire. He sees Right having taken his place in facing Brielle, and Left having emerged victorious from her scuffle beneath the manor to fend against two more opponents. He did not see Wrathion in the fray until the dragon was all but colliding into him in a whirl of scales that suddenly become black hair and brown skin.

“Anduin,” he gasps, winded and as scuffed as Anduin was sure his own injuries mirrored. “You need to listen to me--”

The king grabs him by the shoulders with a gasp, just in time to send them both plummeting to the ground to avoid the talons coming for their hides. The impact was poorly calculated, making Anduin’s vision go white from what he acutely registers as his cursed right hip being the first to make contact with the hard, frozen earth. He could feel hands searching for him in the haze of pain-- _Wrathion’__s_ clawed hands frantically trying to righten him.

They roll and face one another. Anduin could barely see the dragon’s face truly aglow in panic. “I didn’t do this,” he says.

His earnestness left Anduin for a loop, more so than he already was trying not to scream over what was sure to be him about to black out. “What are you talking about?”

Wrathion’s red eyes squeeze shut as if equally pained; the rapid blinking that follows in them opening again was nearly blinding. “I don’t know how,” he says. “But he’s there. Lightsakes, Anduin, it’s _Moss_.”

A sharp clang of steel abruptly reminds the men of their vulnerable position; Anduin’s impromptu weapon ricochets a crossbow bolt just barely out of harm’s way, and he scrambles to take the blade quickly in his hands to fend off the dagger that comes for him next. Wrathion was back on his feet to drive the Nightborne away with a shove of his shoulder, sending him skidding with a dragon’s strength hidden underneath his limber guise. In the few seconds he’s able to spare helping Anduin stand, the king summons another pool of sickly Void tendrils with shaking hands, restraining the rogue struggling for his freedom.

He sees Wrathion’s eyebrows disappear into his tangled hair. The moment to educate the pros of studying shadow magic on the side would have to wait another day.

“Don’t move,” a voice demands. Familiar, and almost chipper, the implications of both morphing Anduin’s hot pangs into a cold sweat.

Raising their heads, the men could see themselves surrounded by rogues both still in the air and circling them on the ground. Among the latter was Left and Right, their hands reluctantly held out in front of them with their own crossbows poised at their backs. Anduin could feel the dragon’s sharp nails start to dig into where he was holding Anduin upright.

And true to his claims, the rogue in the epicenter of their defeat was none other than the Blacktalon agent Moss. His long, vine-like hair stood up in all directions above his glowing yellow eyes. His face was gaunt in undeath, but the scrawny body that once matched it was replaced with a much more stalwart cadaver. Wrathion had said he found Moss headless, and presumed dead; the Forsaken must have had no problem rectifying the issue with some stitches and a dash of necromancy.

Moss’s smile stretches his thin lips impossibly wide, but there was malice in that golden stare. When his captives could only stare back in confusion, the rogue gives them a disappointed coo. "Have you forgotten me already? Me, your faithful servant?” His head lulls to one side, pointedly regarding Anduin. “Did he ever tell you, your majesty, that I've been under his service for four years? I followed him as the Son of Deathwing, then as the Black Prince; and then when he so humbly given up his claim to both. I followed my leader without once questioning his actions-- We all did.”

The faces of Moss’s forces flicker between the night’s shadows, and the light of torches and still aflame artillery weapons. Aside from him, Cylia and Brielle, there was no one Anduin could recognize.

But one look to Wrathion told him the dragon knew every face boring their icy gazes into him. His eyes did not dart around in desperation, but instead lingered on every individual, each and every memory seeming to file itself back into his mind’s eye. The more Wrathion recollected, the deeper the lines in his brow grew. He was scared. He was also confused.

That bewilderment only grows in him and Anduin both as Moss continues. “It is regrettable that you have to be reacquainted with your employees this way,” he says, surprising Anduin with the sincerity of his tone, “but if there is one thing you taught us, it is to never exercise caution when it comes to purging a corrupted dragon.”

"What are you talking about?” Wrathion asks. The king has to withhold a gasp as those sharp nails against his arms break the skin. “There isn’t--”

“You _TOLD_ us you were vulnerable!” Moss bellows. His sympathy was gone. Now, he only has his misgivings to needle into the dragon. “You confided with the five of us, and the king of Stormwind that your research was to keep the corruption at bay. You claimed you had a cure-- for your whelp and _yourself_. _YOU_ still have the Voices inside you!”

Wrathion’s eyes go impossibly wide, the reptilian slit of his pupils more apparent than Anduin had ever seen them. Whatever disbelief the king was feeling, Wrathion felt it by the zounds. “That is _not_\--” he begins to protest, but Moss cuts him off.

“You were supposed to be the purified one. The new Earthwarder, you told us.” Moss’s thin faces twists into a pained sneer. “But you have been preparing for a way to _pacify _your urges when the Old Gods claim you. You are not free from corruption. _You_ have been tricking us.”

Did Wrathion not express doubt multiple times about falling under the Old Gods’ thrall? Anduin was reluctant to admit to himself that he had, both in Karazhan and in Stormwind, and yes, in the presence of his rogues. But they were only precautions while throwing around theories of Erythian’s state of mind. Wrathion had gone to great lengths to secure his hatching. The elixir, the thin compromise between himself and the dragons in Outland--

“I am _NOT_ any less vulnerable to N’Zoth’s will as you are!” Wrathion roars at last. The words echo across the forest clearing, making flames flicker and the distant flocks of birds abandon the nests they just had returned to. The dragon’s defiance burns like brimstone underneath his stand.

It’s why it takes Anduin aback to have Wrathion turn to him with no trace of that anger. His voice is only brought out in haste. “You know this, Anduin Wrynn. You know I am not corrupted like Neltharion was.”

It hits Anduin like a tram. In the face of so many enemies, it was not just the support of the High King that Wrathion was seeking to back up his claims. Underneath that hot gaze, his friend was desperate to know he still had Anduin’s trust.

Anduin could yell at the top of his lungs that there were more important things for the dragon to worry about than being reassured he believed him.

But the fact was, in that single moment, this really was the only thing that mattered to Wrathion.

His body ached, but Anduin draws upon as much dignity as he can reach to stare Moss down from his gryphon-back perch. “It was you, wasn’t it,” he seethes. “You orchestrated the attack in the throne room and killed my men, to get to Wrathion.”

Moss’s small smile was the only confirmation Anduin needed. “Wrathion is _not _corrupted,” he spat. “The experiments he conducts is for the hatchling alone. You should be _following_ him in his research to restore the black dragonflight as it once was.”

“Why should we follow him?” an orc rogue speaks up. “Most of us he cast aside without a word. He broke our gems and left us in the dark.”

Anduin grimaces. He remembers Wrathion saying he only kept a handful of agents to assure the secrecy of his research, and the group in front of them was easily more than just who he decided to keep. But the loss of his guards still tore at his heart. “He had to protect his findings. His life and _yours_ could have been in danger when the world was looking for him!”

“He was protecting his corruption from being _discovered_!” Moss’s shout makes the gryphon’s bristle, their riders yanking hard on their reins to steady them as the Forsaken growls. “Enough of this! You will be the last of your flight for good, Son of Deathwing. You _and_ the whelp!”

Wrathion goes rigid. Anduin’s heart stops.

Erythian. The dragon was still in the manor somewhere, and Moss was pointing a skeletal hand toward it for his riders to scour when the king shouts, _“NO!”_

The riders’ paths are blocked by monstrous wall of ice between them and Ravenholdt’s open doors. Stunned by its sudden appearance, the agents holding Left and Right hostage are quickly overwhelmed by the women jumping them and taking back their weapons by force. More ice forms on the reawakened battlefield, rising from the ground as spikes or encasing Blacktalon agents in thick blocks of it.

Moss is spouting orders that Anduin can’t make out as he’s pulling him and Wrathion into a dash away from the chaos. He can feel his magic at its limit as he throws up small and wavering shields over their heads to avoid the stray fire of the new arrivals. A chorus of battle cries ring out in harmony: Stormwind soldiers, and their powerful leaders.

“King Anduin!” the voice of Taelia Fordragon calls. Her silhouette atop that of a gryphon reveals itself from the roof, leading the beast to land in front of him and Wrathion on the ground below.

The relief of seeing her is fleeting as Anduin remembers himself. “We need to get inside,” he says quickly. “There’s someone in there--”

Taelia’s arms wrap around him, but not in an embrace. She puts her armored back between Anduin and the heat of a roaring flame rolling off their forms. When it all subsides, a massive hole is left in the ice wall in front of the manor, and Wrathion was gone. The king’s body moves toward the doors on instinct, but Taelia is holding him back by his arm. “We _need_ to get you out of here!” she yells over the fighting woods.

A protest sits on Anduin’s tongue, leaping away at the appearance of a giant worgen man throwing a screeching rogue over his head like a barrel, and turning to the king with a snarl. “Lady Proudmoore is waiting to teleport us out of here, your majesty, so let’s _go_.”

“Not without Wrathion and his guards!” Anduin snaps. His vision was swimming; he had no time to be tact or smooth over the twin looks of impatience Genn and Taelia were giving him. “Find Left and Right-- the rogues fighting the same enemy we are!”

It wasn’t the best descriptor, but what choice did he have? Genn was the first to reluctantly depart back into the chaos happening around them. Taelia lingers at the king’s side, her urgency in their leave quickly morphing into concern as she gets a look at his injuries for herself. “Anduin--”

He only places a hand on her shoulder to steady himself, and Taelia doesn’t protest. Her arm wraps around his waist as Anduin feels himself finally able to forfeit any weight on his right side.

In the painstaking moments they wait for Wrathion’s return, Taelia beats back any agent daring to get near with the impressive swings of her hammer bearing the anchor crest of her kingdom. Anduin assists with what magic he can, either shielding the woman’s blind sides or disorienting her opponents with bursts of Light.

Neither side of the fight was relenting. In the distance, Anduin could see Jaina’s form glowing amidst the cerulean hues of the magic she was summoning around her. More ice and arcane magic graced the battlefield, but there was a rune below her feet she was concentrating on empowering too. Their way of escape.

Just as he feels Taelia debating with herself on whether or not to carry Anduin against his will, a burst of wood and windowpane glass showers over the east side of the manor behind them. Wrathion’s unmistakable dragon form emerges from the debris, but the king could not make out if he carried a passenger in his teeth or claws. He did seem to have the idea to make a beeline for the distant beacon that was Jaina Proudmoore, and Taelia urges Anduin onto her gryphon for the two of them to follow.

It was all too apparent that a retreat was afoot. No fire or arrows chase after Stormwind’s forces, and Anduin squeezes his eyes shut as Moss’s laughter booms across the forest. “Run, Son of Deathwing! Let them see your corruption for themselves!”

Taelia lands her gryphon and immediately rushes to help Anduin limp through the massive portal summoned to spill the soldiers through. Jaina meets his eye briefly, concern and joy mingling in every corner of her shadowed face. He doesn’t get to match the latter as he hears it: one final warning before he’s ushered through the whirling spell:

"There are hundreds of us you left behind-- _And __with HUNDREDS__ we will march upon you!”_

* * *

Wrathion was the last to enter through the portal, meeting Jaina’s cold stare just before disappearing in the whirlwind of magic that began to un-thread his draconic form. As quickly as he was unraveled, he is soon made whole again in the tamed wilderness of Elwynn.

A score of faces meet his. Dwarven riders and Alliance soldiers of mixed race, Lady Proudmoore and Genn Greymane, with Left and Right held near them. Valeera, and Taelia Fordragon, yes, he recognizes her from nights ago among them-- And at last, King Anduin Wrynn.

No one speaks in the presence of a wanted criminal not seen in years. He realizes this fact very dimly, but he is too exhausted to think of the dire consequences of his exposure. He only has eyes for the king staring wide-eyed back at him. Surprised? No; he was looking for something on Wrathion’s person. Desperate to find something there--

Oh. Wrathion carefully sits on his back haunches, very gingerly opening the talons of his right front paw.

Nestled within was Erythian, blinking his green eyes into the dim light of the coming morning. The ball he furled himself in comes unraveled as he begins to chirp curiously at the new smells around him. As if forgetting his own feat of rescuing him, Wrathion could feel his heart flutter with relief. Alive. The dragon was alive, safe from hie enemies’ blades.

And, remembering the swarm of onlookers around him, the dragon lifts his gaze, suddenly coming face-to-face with stares of many. No longer suspicious, no. Some of them, in fact, look to be on the verge of losing their slack jaws.

Many of them began to look between Wrathion, and the whelp, and, of all people, Anduin Wrynn, whose deep scowl and flush cheeks made the dragon all the happier for them to have made it out alive together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. It's been three months, and the new expac is probably coming out a couple weeks after my birthday again. Crazy when you remember this is supposed to take place before 8.3 because I STILL haven't done any endgame BFA content. Whoops.
> 
> Also, I edited Chapter 2-3 along with this new one! They were my most painful to reread, so I went back and made a few tweaks to better match the rest of the writing style I've (maybe???????) improved with. Hopefully in time I can edit a few other glaring spelling/grammar mistakes my dyslexia has missed in the past. And in this chapter. And in the next one. Etc..
> 
> THANKS FOR READING.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first real fanfiction that I'm a little nervous about posting, but we all got that wranduin fever man. Thanks for reading!


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